-V. 


THE  LUCK  OF 
THE  MOUNTED 

A  TALE  OF  THE  ROYAL 
NORTHWEST  MOUNTED  POLICE 


BY 

SERGEANT  RALPH  S.  KENDALL 

EX-MEMBER   OP  THE  R.  N.  W.  M.  P. 


This  truest  of  stories  confirms  beyond  doubt, 
That  truest  of  adages — "Murder  will  out!" 
In  vain  may  the  blood-stiller  "double  "  and  fly, 
In  vain  even  witchcraft  and  sorcery  try  : 
Although  for  a  tithe  he  may  'scape,  by-and-by 
He'll  be  suft  to  be  caught  by  a  Hue  and  a  Cry  I 

— THE  INGOLDSBY   LEGEND 


GROSS  ET   &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 

Made  in  the  United  State*  of  Amelia 


COPYRIGHT- 1920 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


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THE 
LUCK    OF    THE    MOUNTED 

CHAPTER   I 

O  sing  us  a  song  of  days  that  are  gone  — 
Of  men  and  happenings  —  of  war  and  peace; 
We  love  to  yarn  of  "th'  times  that  was" 
As  our  hair  grows  gray,  and  our  years  increase. 
So  —  revert  we  again  to  our  ancient  lays  — 
Fill  we  our  pipes,  and  our  glasses  raise  — 
"Salue!  to  those  stirring,  bygone  days!" 
Cry  the  old  non-coms  of  the  Mounted  Police. 

MEMORIES 

ALL  day  long  the  blizzard  had  raged,  in  one  con- 
tinuous squalling  moaning  roar  —  the  fine-spun 
snow  swirling  and  drifting  about  the  barrack- 
buildings  and  grounds  of  the  old  Mounted  Police 
Post  of  L.  Division.  Whirraru!-ee! — thrumm-mm! 
hummed  the  biting  nor-'e"aster  through  the  cross-tree 
rigging  of  the  towering  flag-pole  in  the  centre  of  the 
wind-swept  square,  while  the  slapping  flag-halyards 
kept  up  an  infernal  "devil's  tattoo."  With  snow- 
bound roof  from  which  hung  huge  icicles,  like  walrus- 
tusks,  the  big  main  building  loomed  up,  ghostly  and 

9 


io      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

indistinct,  amidst  the  whirling,  white-wreathed  world, 
save  where,  from  the  lighted  windows  broad  streamers 
of  radiance  stabbed  the  surrounding  gloom;  reflecting 
the  driving  snow-spume  like  dust-motes  dancing  in 
a  sunbeam. 

Enveloped  in  snow-drifts  and  barely  visible  in  the 
uncertain  light  there  clustered  about  the  central  struc- 
ture the  long,  low-lying  guard-room,  stables,  quarter- 
master's store,  and  several  smaller  adjacent  buildings 
comprising  "The  Barracks."  It  was  a  bitter  February 
night  in  South  Alberta. 

From  the  vicinity  of  the  guard-room  the  muffled-up 
figure  of  a  man,  with  head  down  against  the  driving 
blizzard,  padded  noiselessly  with  moccasined  feet  up 
the  pathway  leading  to  the  main  building.  Soon  reach- 
ing his  destination,  he  dived  hastily  through  the  double 
storm-doors  of  the  middle  entrance  into  the  passage, 
and  banged  them  to. 

Flanking  him  on  either  side,  in  welcome  contrast  to 
the  bitter  world  outside,  he  beheld  the  all-familiar 
sight  of  two  inviting  portals,  each  radiating  light, 
warmth,  and  good  fellowship  —  the  one  on  his  right 
hand  particularly.  A  moment  he  halted  irresolutely 
between  regimental  canteen  and  library;  then,  for  some 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       n 

reason  best  known  to  himself,  he  steadily  ignored  both, 
for  the  time  being,  and  passing  on  began  slowly  to 
mount  a  short  flight  of  stairs  at  the  end  of  the  passage. 
Sweet  music  beguiled  each  reluctant  step  of  his 
ascent:  the  tinkle  of  a  piano  accompaniment  to  a  roar- 
ing jovial  chorus  from  the  canteen  assuring  him  with 
plaintive,  but  futile  insistence  just  then,  that' — 

Beer,  beer!  was  glorious  beer,  etc. 

Reaching  the  landing  he  paused  for  a  space  in  an 
intent  listening  attitude  outside  the  closed  door  of  a 
room  marked  No.  3.  From  within  came  the  sounds  of 
men's  voices  raised  in  a  high-pitched,  gabbling  alterca- 
tion. 

Turning  swiftly  to  an  imaginary  audience,  his  ex- 
pressive young  countenance  contorted  into  a  grimace  of 
unholy  glee,  the  listener  flung  aloft  his  arms  and 
blithely  executed  a  few  noiseless  steps  of  an  impromptu 
war-dance. 

"They're  at  it  again!"  he  muttered  ecstatically. 

Some  seconds  he  capered  thus  in  pantomime;  then, 
as  swiftly  composing  his  features  into  a  mask-like  ex- 
pression, he  turned  the  handle  and  entered.  On  the 
big  thermometer  nailed  outside  the  Orderly-room  the 


12       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

mercury  may  have  registered  anything  between  twenty 
and  thirty  below  zero,  but  inside  Barrack-room  No.  3 
the  temperature  at  that  moment  was  warm  enough. 

Two  men,  seated  at  either  end  of  a  long  table  hi  the 
centre  of  the  room,  busily  engaged  in  cleaning  their 
accoutrements,  glanced  up  casually  at  his  entrance; 
then,  each  vouchsafing  him  a  preoccupied  salutory 
mumble,  they  bent  to  their  furbishing  with  the  brisk 
concentration  peculiar  to  "Service  men"  the  world  over. 
As  an  accompaniment  to  their  labours,  in  desultory 
fashion,  they  kept  alive  the  embers  of  a  facetious 
wrangling  argument  —  their  respective  vocabularies, 
albeit  more  or  less  ensanguined,  exhibiting  a  fluent  and 
masterly  range  of  quaint  barrack-room  idiom  and 
invective. 

Both  were  clad  in  brown  duck  "fatigue  slacks,"  the 
rolled-up  sleeves  of  their  "gray-back"  shirts  disclosing 
the  fact  that  the  sinewy  forearms  of  both  men  were 
decorated  with  gay  and  fanciful  specimens  of  the  tattoo 
artist's  genius.  A  third  man,  similarly  habited,  lay 
stretched  out,  apparently  sleeping  on  one  of  the  cots 
that  were  arranged  around  the  room.  Opening  his 
eyes  he  greeted  the  newcomer  with  a  lethargic  "  'Lo, 
Redmond!";  then,  turning  over  on  his  side,  he  re- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       13 

lapsed  once  more  into  the  arms  of  Morpheus  —  his 
nasal  organ  proclaiming  that  fact  beyond  doubt. 

The  orderly  aspect  of  the  room  bore  mute  evidence 
of  regimental  discipline.  The  blankets  —  with  the 
sheets  placed  in  the  centre  —  were  strapped  into  a 
neat  roll  at  the  head  of  each  tartan-rugged  cot,  at 
the  foot  of  which  lay  a  folded  black  oil-sheet  Above, 
on  a  small  shelf,  were  the  spare  uniform  and  Stetson 
hat,  flanked  on  either  side  by  a  pair  of  high  brown 
"Strathcona"  riding-boots,  with  straight-shanked 
"cavalry-jack"  spurs  attached.  On  pegs  underneath 
hung  the  regulation  side-arms,  —  a  "Sam  Browne" 
belt  and  holster  containing  the  Colt's  .45  Service  re- 
volver. A  rifle-rack  at  the  end  of  the  room  contained 
its  quota  of  Winchester  carbines. 

The  last  arrival,  whom  the  sleeper  had  designated 
"Redmond,"  proceeded  to  divest  himself  of  his  short 
fur  coat  and,  after  dashing  the  snow  from  it  and  his 
muskrat-faced  cap,  unbuckled  his  side-arms,  and  hung 
all  up  at  the  head  of  his  own  particular  cot. 

Flashing  across  our  retrospective  mind-screens,  as 
at  times  we  dreamily  delve  into  the  past,  beloved  faces 
come  and  go.  Forever  in  the  memory  of  the  writer, 
as  his  ideal  conception  of  healthy,  virile  splendid  Youth 


14      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

personified,  will  stand  the  bronzed,  debonair,  clean- 
shaven young  face  of  George  Redmond  —  or  "Reddy," 
as  he  was  more  familiarly  dubbed  by  his  comrades  of 
.  £,.  Division. 

Handsome  his  countenance  could  not  have  been 
termed- — the  features  were  too  strongly-marked  and 
roughly-hewn.  But  it  was  an  undeniably  open,  attrac- 
tive and  honest  one  —  the  sort  of  face  that  instinctively 
invited'  one's  "Hail,  fellow,  well  met!"  trust -at  first 
sight.  His  hair  was  dark  auburn  in  colour,  short  and 
wavy,  with  a  sort  of  golden  tinge  in  it;  his  forehead 

s  broad  and  open,  and  below  it  were  two  uncom- 
monly waggish  blue  eyes.  His  habitual  expression  was 
a  mixture  of  nonchalant  good  humour 'and  gay  in- 
souciance, but  the  slightly  aquiline,  prominent  nose 
and  the1  set  of  the  square  aggressive  jaw  belied  in  a 
measure  the  humourous  curl  of  the  lips. 

Those  who  knew  his  disposition  .well  were  fully 
aware  how  swiftly  the  mocking  smile  could  vanish  from 
that  indolent  young  face  on  occasion  —  how  unpleas- 
antly those  wide  blue  orbs  could  contract  beneatt 
scowling  brows  into  mere  pin-points  of  steel  and  ice: 
Slightly  above  middle  height,  well-s€t-up  and  strongly, 
though  not  heavily  made,  the  lines  of  his  clean-built 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       15 

figure  suggested  the  embodiment  of  grace,  strength 
and  activity. 

He  was  dressed  in  the  regulation  winter  uniform  of 
the  Force,  consisting  of  a  scarlet-serge  tunic,  dark- 
blue  cord  riding  breeches  with  the  broad  yellow  stripe 
down  the  side,  thick  black  woollen  stockings  reaching 
to  the  knee,  and  buckskin  moccasins  with  spurs 
attached.  Over  the  stockings,  and  rolled  tightly  down 
upon  the  tops  of  the  moccasins  as  snow-excluders, 
were  a  pair  of  heavy  gray  socks. 

Wriggling  out  of  his  tightly-fitting  red  serge  he 
carelessly  flung  that  article  onto  the  next  cot;  then, 
filling  and  lighting  a  pipe,  he  stretched  out  comfortably 
upon  his  own.  With  hands  clasped  behind  his  head  he 
lazily  watched  the  two  previously-mentioned  men  at 
their  cleaning  operations,  his  expressive  face  registering 
indolent  but  mischievous  interest,  as  he  listened  to 
their  wrangling. 

"No!"  resumed  one  of  the  twain  emphatically,  apro- 
pos of  some  previous  contention,  "No,  by  gum!  this 
division  ain't  what  it  used  to  be  in  them  days." 

He  gave  vent  to  a  reminiscent  sigh  as  he  spat  upon 
and  rubbed  up  some  powdered  brick-dust. 

"Billy  Herchmer  was  O.C.,  Fred  Bagley  was  Ser- 


16      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

geant-Major  —  and  there  was  Harry  Hetherington, 
Ralph  Bell,  De  Barre,  Jeb  Frowne,  Pennycuik,  and  all 
them  old-timers.  Eyah!  th'  times  that  was!  th'  times 
that  was!  Force's  all  filled  up  now  mostly  with  'Smart 
Aleck'  kids,  like  Reddy,  here,  an'  "  —  he  shot  a  glance 
of  calculating  invitation  at  his  vis-a-vis,  Hardy  — "  'old 
sweats'  from  the  Old  Country  Imperials." 

Artfully  to  start  some  trivial  but  decidedly  inflam- 
mable barrack-room  argument  was  one  of  Corporal 
Dave  McCullough's  pet  diversions.  At  this  somewhat 
doubtful  pastime  he  would  exhibit  a  knowledge  of 
human  nature  and  an  infinite  patience  worthy  of  a 
better  object.  From  some  occult  reasoning  of  his 
Celtic  soul  the  psychological  moment  he  generally 
chose  as  being  likely  the  most  fruitful  of  results  was 
either  a  few  minutes  before,  or  after  "Lights  Out." 

When  the  ensuing  conflagration  had  blazed  to  the  de- 
sired stage  he  would  quietly  extinguish  his  own  vocal 
torch  and  lie  back  on  his  cot  with  a  sort  of  "Mark 
Antony"  "Now  let  it  work!"  chuckle.  "Getting  their 
goats"  he  termed  it.  Usually  though,  when  the  storm 
of  bad  language  and  boots  had  subsided,  his  dupes, 
too,  like  those  of  "Silver  Street"  were  wont  to  scratch 
their  heads  and  commune  one  with  another • — • 

i — begod,  I  wonder  why? 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       17 

He  was  a  heavy-shouldered  man;  middle-aged,  with 
thick,  crisp  iron-gray  hair  and  moustache  and  a  pair 
of  humourous  brown  eyes  twinkling  in  a  lined,  weather- 
beaten  face.  His  slightly  nasal  voice  was  dry  and 
penetrating  to  the  point  of  exasperation.  For  many 
years  he  had  acted  as  "farrier"  to  L.  Division. 

George  warily  accepted  the  share  of  the  pleasantry 
extended  to  him  with  a  shrug,  and  a  non-committal 
grin.  But  Hardy  chose  to  regard  it  as  a  distinct 
challenge,  and  therefore  a  promising  bone  of  conten- 
tion. He  gloated  over  it  awhile  ere  pouncing. 

A  medium-sized,  wiry,  compactly-built  man  bodily, 
Hardy  bore  lightly  the  weight  of  his  forty-five  years. 
His  hair  was  of  that  uncertain  sandy  colour  which 
somehow  never  seems  to  turn  gray;  the  edges  of  the 
crisply-curling  forelock  being  soaped,  rolled  and 
brushed  up  into  that  approved  tonsorial  ornament 
known  in  barrack-room  parlance  as  a  "quiff."  His 
complexion  was  of  that  peculiar  olive-brown  shade 
especially  noticeable  in  most  Anglo-Indians.  In  his 
smart,  soldierly  aspect,  biting,  jerky  Cockney  speech 
and  clipped,  wax-pointed  moustache  he  betrayed  un- 
mistakably the  ex-Imperial  cavalry-man. 

"Old  sweats!"  he  echoed  sarcastically  —  he  pro- 


i8      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

nounced  it  "aoweld" — "Yas!  you  go  tell  that  t'  th> 
Marines,  me  lad!  ...  Took  a  few  o'  th'  sime  'old 
sweats'  t'  knock  "Ay  Leg!'  'Straw  Leg!'  inter  some 
o'  you  mossbacks  at  th'  stort  orf.  Gee!  Har!  oh, 
gorblimey,  yas!"  He  illustrated  his  trenchant  remarks 
in  suggestive  pantomime. 

"Ah!"  quoth  McCullough  blithely,  "Yu'  know  th' 
sayin'  —  'Old  soldier  —  old  stiff?'  .  .  ." 

His  adversary  burnished  a  spur  viciously.  "Old 
pleeceman  —  old  son  of  a  —  "  he  retorted  with  a  spite- 
ful grin.  "W'y,  my  old  Kissiwasti  here  knows  more 
abaht  drill'n  wot  you  do."  He  indicated  a  rather  dis- 
reputable-looking gray  parrot,  preening  itself  in  a  cage 
which  stood  upon  a  cot  nearby. 

At  the  all-familiar  sound  of  its  name  the  bird  sud- 
denly ceased  its  monotonous  beak  and  claw  gymnastics 
for  a  space,  becoming  on  the  instant  alertly  attentive. 
There  came  a  preliminary  craning  of  neck  and  winking 
of  white-parchment-lidded  eyes,  and  then,  in  shock- 
ingly human  fashion  it  proceeded  to  give  voluble 
utterance  to  some  startling  samples  of  barrack-room 
profanity.  Its  shrill  invective  would  have  awakened 
the  dead.  The  whistling,  regular  snores  of  the  sleeper 
suddenly  wound  up  with  a  gasping  gurgle;  he  opened 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       19 

his  eyes  and,  in  a  strong  cereal  accent  gave  vent  to  a 
somnolent  peevish  protest. 

"Losh!  .  .  .  whot  wi'  you  fellers  bickerin'  an'  yon 
damn  birrd  currsin'  I  canna  sleep!  .  .  .  gie  th'  —  " 

But  Hardy  silenced  him  with  a  warning  finger. 

"Sh-sh!  McSporran!"  he  hissed  in  a  loud  eager 
whisper,  "Jes'  'awk  t'  im?  .  .  .  gort  th'  real  reg'mental 
tatch  'as  old  Kissiwasti!  ain't  he?"  —  his  face  shone 
with  simple  pride  —  "d'  yer  'ken'  that?  sh-sh!  listen 
now!  .  .  .  Yer  shud  'ear  'im  s'y  'Got,  mon!'  .  .  . 
'Awk  t'im  up  an'  tellin'yer  w'y  th'  Jocks  wear  th'  kilts." 

Awhile  McSporran  listened,  but  with  singular  lack  of 
enthusiasm.  Presently,  swinging  his  legs  over  the  side 
of  the  cot  with  a  weary  sigh,  he  proceeded  to  fill  his 
pipe.  He  was  a  thick-set,  grey-eyed  fair  man  about 
thirty,  with  a  stolid,  though  shrewd,  clean-shaven  face. 

"Best  ye  stickit  tae  wha'  ye  ca'  'English,'  auld  mon! " 
he  remarked  irritably,  "Baith  yersel'  an'  yer  plurry 
pairrut.  .  .  .  Ou  ay,  I  ken! — D'ye  ken  John 
Peel?  —  " 

And,  in  derision  he  hummed  a  few  lines  of  a  rather 
vulgar  parody  of  that  ancient  song  that  obtained 
around  Barracks. 

"Say,  by  gad,  though!  that  bird  is  a  fright!"  ejacu* 


20      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

lated  George  suddenly,  "Holy  Doodle!  just  listen  to 
what  he  said  then?  ...  If  ever  he  starts  in  to  hand 
out  tracts  like  that  when  the  O.C.'s  up  here  inspecting 
he'll  get  invested  with  the  Order  of  the  'Neck-Wring' 
for  usurping  his  pet  privilege.  You'd  better  let  Brank- 
ley  the  quartermaster,  have  him.  He  was  up  here  the 
other  day  and  heard  him.  He  was  tickled  to  death  — •. 
said  he'd  like  to  buy  him  off  you,  and  'top  him  off'  — • 
finish  his  education." 

"Oh,  'e  did,  did  'e?"  growled  Hardy  mutinously, 
fcut  with  ill-concealed  interest,  "Well,  'e  ain't  a-goin' 
t'  'ave  Jim!"  He  breathed  hard  upon  a  buckle  and 
polished  it  to  his  satisfaction.  "Brankley  is.  some 
connosser  I  will  admit,"  he  conceded  grudgingly,  "but 
Kissiwasti's  got  orl  th'  'toppin  orf  wot's  good  fur  'im 

—  dahn  Regina  —  'e  went  through  a  reg'lar  course 
dahn  there  —  took  'is  degree,  so  t'  speak.  ...  I  uster 
tike  an'  'ang  'is  kydge  hup  in  that  little  gallery  in  thj 
ridin  school  of  a  mornin'  —  when  Inspector  Chappell, 
th'  ridin'  master  wos  breakin'  in  a  bunch  o'  rookies 

—  'toppin'  orf,'  wot?  .  .  ." 

"Tchkk!"  clucked  McCullough  wearily.  "What  is 
the  use  of  arguin'  with  an  old  sweat  like  him?  .  .  . 
Hardy'll  be  happy  enough  in  Hell,  so  long  as  he  can 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       21 

have  his  bloomin'  old  blackguard  of  a  parrot  along 
with  him.  If  he  can't  there  will  be  a  pretty  fuss." 

"Bear  up,  Hardy!"  comforted  George.  "When 
you've  got  that  'quiff'  of  yours  all  fussed  up,  and  those 
new  'square-pushin' '  dress-pants  on  you're  some  'hot 
dog.'  .  .  .  Now,  if  I  thought  you  could  'talk  pretty' 
and  behave  yourself  I'd  —  " 

The  old  soldier  grinned  diabolically.  "Sorjint?"  he 
broke  in  mincingly  "c'n  I  fall  out  an'  tork  t'  me  sister? 

—  garn,  Reddy!   wipe  orf  yer  chin!   .  .  .  though  if 
I  did  'appen  t'  'ave  a  sister  she  might  s'y  th'  sime 
fing  abaht  me,  now,  as  she  might  s'y  abaht  you  —  to 
a  lydy-fren'  o'  'er's,  p'raps.  .  .  ." 

"Say  what?"  demanded  George  incautiously. 
Hardy  chuckled  again,     "  'Ere  comes  one  o'  them 
Mounted  Pleecemen,  me  dear,  —  orl  comb  an'  spurs, 

—  mark  time  in  front  there.   .    .    ! "    And  he  emitted 
an  imitation  of  a  barnyard  cackle. 

McCullough  shot  a  glance  at  Redmond's  face.  "Can 
th'  grief"  he  remarked  unsympathetically,  "you're  fly 
enough  usually  .  .  .  but  you  fairly  asked  for  it  that 
time." 

Hardy  spat  into  a  cuspidor  with  long-range  accuracy. 
He  beamed  with  cheerful  malevolence  awhile  upon  his 


52       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

tormentors;  then,  uplifting  a  cracked  falsetto  in  an 
unmusical  wail,  to  the  tune  of  "London  Bridge  is 
Falling  Down,"  assured  them  that  — 

"Old  soweljers  never  die,  never  die,  never  die, 
Old  soweljers  never  —  " 

With  infinite  mockery  Redmond's  boyish  voice 
struck  in  — 

"Young  soldiers  wish  they  -would,  wish  they  — " 

"'Ere!"  remonstrated  Hardy  darkly,  "chack  it, 
Reddy!  .  .  .  You  know  wot  'appens  t'  them  as  starts 
in  a-guyin'  old  soweljers?  —  eh?  —  Well,  I  tell  yer 
now!  — worse'n  wot  'appened  t'  them  fresh  kids  in  th' 
Bible  wot  mocked  th'  old  blowke  abaht  'is  bald  'ead." 

"Isch  ga  bibble!  I  don't  care! "  bawled  the  abandoned 
George;  "can't  be  much  worse  than  doing  'straight 
duty'  round  Barracks,  here!  —  same  thing,  day  in,  day 
out  —  go  and  look  at  the  'duty  detail'  board  —  Regi- 
mental Number  —  Constable  Redmond,  'prisoner's  es- 
cort'—  punching  gangs  of  prisoners  around  all  day 
long,  on  little  rotten  jobs  about  Barracks  —  and  'night 
guard'  catching  you  every  third  night  and  — 

"Oyez!  oyez!  oyez!  you  good  men  of  this  —  " 

"Oh,  yes!  you  can  come  the  funny  man  all  right, 
Mac — ;  you've  got  a  'staff'  job.  Straight  duty  don't 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       23 

affect  you.  Why  don't  they  shove  me  out  on  detach- 
ment again,  and  give  me  another  chance  to  do  real 
police  work?  ...  I  tell  you  I'm  fed  up  —  properly. 
...  I  wish  I  was  out  of  the  blooming  Force  —  I'm 
not  'wedded'  to  it,  like  you." 

"'Ear,  'ear!"  chimed  in  Hardy,  with  a  sort  of' 
miserable  heartiness.  McSporran's  contribution  was 
merely  a  dour  Scotch  grin.  In  the  moment's  silence 
that  followed  a  tremendous  bawling  squall  of  wind 
rocked  the  building  to  its  very  foundations.  The 
back-draught  of  it  sucked  open  the  door,  and,  borne 
upon  its  wings,  the  roaring,  full-chorused  burst  of  a 
popular  barrack-room  chantey  floated  up  the  stairs 
from  the  canteen  below  — 

"Old  King  Cole  was  a  merry  old  soul, 
And  a  merry  old  soul  was  he  — 
He  called  for  his  pipe,  and  he  catted  for  his  glass, 
And  he  called  for  his  old  MP." 

Outside  the  blizzard  still  moaned  and  howled;  every 
now  and  then,  between  lulls,  screeching  gusts  of  sleet 
beat  upon  the  windows.  The  parrot,  clinging  upside 
down  to  the  roof  of  its  cage,  winked  rapidly  with 
Sphinx-like  eyes  and  inclined  its  head  sideways  in  an 
intent  listening  attitude. 


24      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Eyah!  but  th'  Force's  a  bloomin'  good  home  to 
some  of  you,  all  th'  same,"  growled  McCullough. 
"Listen  to  that  'norther'?  .  .  .  How'd  you  like  to  be 
chucked  out  into  th'  cold,  cold  world  right  now?  — • 
You,  Hardy!  that's  never  done  no  thin'  but  'soldier'  all 
your  life  —  you,  Reddy!  with  your  'collidge  edu- 
kashun'?" 

George,  unmoved,  listened  respectfully  awhile,  lying 
on  his  stomach  with  his  chin  cupped  hi  his  hands. 
"Must  have  been  a  great  bunch  of  fellows  when  you 
first  took  on  the  Force,  Dave?"  he  queried  presently. 

From  sheer  force  of  habit  the  old  policeman  glanced 
at  his  interlocutor  suspiciously.  But  that  young 
gentleman's  face  appearing  open  and  serene,  merely 
expressing  naive  interest,  he  grunted  an  affirmative, 
"Uh-huh!"  and  backed  his  conviction  with  a  cheer- 
ful oath. 

"Ah,  they  sure  was.  But  where  are  they  all  now?" 
he  rambled  on  in  garrulous  reminiscence,  "some  of  'em 
rich  —  some  of  'em  broke  —  an'  many  of  'em  back  on 
th'  old  Force  again,  an'  glad  to  get  their  rations. 
There  was  some  that  talked  like  you,  Mister  Bloomin' 
Reddy!  — fed  up,  an'  goin'  to  quit  —  an'  did  quit  — 
for  a  time.  There  was  Corky  Jones,  I  mind.  Him 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       25 

that  used  to  blow  'bout  th'  wonderful  jobs  he'd  got 
th'  pick  of  when  he  was  'time-ex.'  All  he  got  was 
'reeve'  of  some  little  shi-poke  burg  down  south. 
Hooshomin  its  real  name,  but  they  mostly  call  it 
Hootch  thereabouts.  A  rotten  little  dump  of  'bout 
fifty  inhabitants.  They're  drunk  half  th'  time  an'  wear 
each  other's  clothes.  Ugh!  filthy  beggars!  .  .  .  He's 
back  on  th'  Force  again.  There  was  Gadgett  Malone. 
Proper  dog  he  was  —  used  to  sing  'Love  me,  an7  th' 
World  is  Mine.'  He  got  all  balled  up  with  a  widder, 
first  crack  out  o'  th'  box,  an'  she  shook  him  down  for 
his  roll  an'  put  th'  skids  under  him  in  great  shape  in- 
side of  a  month.  He's  back  on  th'  Force  again.  There 
was  Barton  McGuckin.  When  he  pulled  out  he  shook 
hands  all  around,  I  mind.  Yes,  sir!  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  he  did.  Told  us  no  matter  how  high  he  rose  in  th' 
world  he'd  never  forget  his  old  comrades  —  always 
rec'gnize  'em  on  th'  street  an'  all  that.  On  his  way 
down  town  he  was  fool  enough  to  go  into  one  o'  these 
here  Romany  Pikey  dives  for  to  get  his  fortune  told. 
This  gypsy  woman  threw  it  into  him  he  was  goin'  to 
make  his  fortune  in  th'  next  two  or  three  days  by  in- 
vestin'  his  dough  in  a  certain  brand  of  oil  shares.  .  .  ." 
McCullough  paused  and  filled  his  pipe  with  elaborate 


26      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

care,  "Th'  last  time  I  see  him  he  was  in  th'  buildin' 
an'  contractin'  line  —  carryin'  a  hod  an'  pushin'  an 
Irishman's  buggy  .  .  .  There's  —  but,  aw  hell !  what's 
th'  use  o'  talkin'?"  he  concluded  disgustedly.  "No! 
times  ain't  what  they  was,  by  gum !  —  rough  stuff  an' 
all  things  was  run  more  real  reg'mental  them  days  — 
not  half  th'  grousin'  either." 

"Reel  reg'mental?"  echoed  Hardy  mincingly,  "aowe 
gorblimey!  'awk  t'im?  well,  wot  abaht  it?  I've  done 
my  bit,  too!  — in  Injia.  See  'ere;  look!" 

He  pulled  up  the  loose  duck-pant  of  his  right  leg. 
On  the  outside  of  the  hairy,  spare  but  muscular  limb, 
an  ugly  old  dirty-white  scar  zigzagged  from  knee  to 
ankle. 

"Paythan  knife,"  he  informed  them  briefly,  "but  I 
did  th'  blowke  in  wot  give  it  me."  He  launched  into 
a  lurid  account  of  a  border  hill-scuffle  that  his  regi- 
ment had  been  engaged  in  relating  all  its  ghastly  de- 
tails with  great  gusto.  "Cleared  me  lance-point  ten 
times  that  d'y,"  he  remarked  laconically.  "Flint  was 
aour  Orf'cer  Commandin'  —  Old  'Doolally  Flint' - 
'ard  old  'ranker'  'e  wos.  'E'd  worked  us  sumphin' 
crool  that  week.  Night  marches  an'  wot  not.  I  tell 
yer  that  man  'ad  no  'eart  for  men  or  'orses.  An'  you 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       27 

tork  abaht  bein'  reel  reg'mental,  Mac!  .  .  .  'e  wos 
a  reg'mental  old  soor  if  yer  like!  ...  Fit  to  drop  we 
wos  —  wot  wos  left  o'  us,  an'  th'  bloody  sun  goin'  down 
an'  all.  But  no!  'e  give  us  no  rest  —  burial  fatigue 
right  away.  Free  big  trenches  we  buried  aour  pore 
fellers  in  —  I  can  see  'em  now.  .  .  ." 

For  some  few  seconds  he  ceased  polishing  his 
glossy,  mahogany-shaded  "Sam  Browne"  belt,  and, 
chin  in  hand,  stared  unseeingly  straight  in  front  of 
him.  His  audience  waited.  "Arterwards!"  he  cleared 
his  throat,  "arter  wards —  w'en  we'd  filled  in  'e  made 
us  put  th'  trimmin's  on  —  line  'em  out  'ead  an'  foot 
wiv  big  bowlders.  I  mind  I'd  jes  kem  a-staggerin'  ap 
wiv  a  big  stowne  for  th'  'ead  o'  Number  Free  trench, 
but  Doolally  kep  me  a-markin  time  till  'e  wos  ready. 
'Kem  ap  a  bit,  Private  'Ardy,'  'e  sez,  'kem  ap  a  bit! 
you're  aht  o'  yer  dressin' ! '  'e  sez.  'Arry  Wagstaff,  as 
wos  in  Number  Two  Squordron  'e  pulls  a  bit  o'  chork 
aht  of  'is  pocket,  an'  'e  marks  on  'is  bowlder  in  big, 
fat  letters  'Lucky  soors  —  in  bed  ev'ry  night' — but 
old  Doolally  'appened  to  turn  rahnd  an'  cop  'im  at  it. 
Drum-'ead  coort-martial  'Arry  gort  for  that,  an'  drew 
ten  d'ys  Number  One  Field  Punishment.  But  that  wos 
old  Doolally  all  over.  .  .  yer  might  s'y  'e  'adn't  no  sense 


28      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

o'  'umor,  that  man.  Down  country  we  moves  next  d'y, 
for  Peshawur,  where  th'  reg'ment  lay.  We'd  copped  a 
thunderin'  lot  o'  prisoners  —  th'  Mullah  an'  all." 

"Wha'  d'ye  ca'  a  Mullah?"  queried  McSporran,  with 
grave  interest. 

Hardy,  carbine-barrel  between  knees  —  struggled 
with  a  "pull-through."  "Mullah?  well,  'e's  a  sorter  — 
sorter  'ead  blowke,"  he  mumbled  lamely. 

"Kind  of  High  Priest?"  ventured  George. 

The  old  soldier  beamed  upon  him  gratefully,  "Ar, 
that's  wot  I  meant.  'E  stunk  that  'igh  th'  Colonel  'e 
sez  —  " 

The  storm  doors  banged  below.  "Redmond!  — d&, 
Redmond!"  The  great,  booming,  bass  voice  rang 
echoing  up  the  stairway.  Involuntarily  they  all  sprang 
to  an  attitude  of  alert  attention.  Rarely  did  Tom 
Belcher  have  to  speak  twice  around  Barracks. 

"There's  the  S.M.!"  muttered  George.     Aloud  he 
responded  "Coming,  Sergeant-Major!"    And  he  swung *% 
downstairs  where  a  powerfully-built  man  in  a  snow  and 
ice-incrusted  fur  coat  awaited  him. 

"The  O.C.'s  orders,  Redmond !  —  get  your  kit 
packed  and  hold  yourself  in  readiness  to  pull  out  on  the 
eleven  o'clock  West-bound  to-morrow.  You're  trans- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       29 

ferred  to  the  Davidsburg  detachment.  I'll  give  you 
your  transport-requisition  later." 

The  storm  doors  banged  behind  him,  and  then, 
Redmond,  not  without  design,  forced  himself  to  saunter 
slowly  —  very  slowly  —  upstairs  again,  whistling  non- 
chalantly the  while. 

Expectant  faces  greeted  him.  "What's  up?"  they 
chorused.  With  a  fine  assumption  of  indifference  he 
briefly  informed  them.  McSporran  received  the  news 
with  his  customary  stolidity,  only  his  gray  eyes 
twinkled  and  he  chuntered  something  that  was  totally 
unintelligible  to  anyone  save  himself.  But  its  effect 
upon  McCullough  and  Hardy  was  peculiar,  not  to  say, 
startling  in  the  extreme.  With  brush  and  burnisher 
clutched  in  their  respective  hands  they  both  turned  and 
gaped  upon  him  fish-eyed  for  the  moment.  Then,  as 
their  eyes  met,  those  two  worthies  seemed  to  experience 
a  difficulty  of  articulation. 

Dumfounded  himself,  George  looked  from  one  to 
the  other.  "What  the  devil's  wrong  with  you  fools?" 
he  queried  irritably. 

Thereupon,  McCullough,  still  holding  the  eyes  of  the 
Cockney,  gasped  out  one  magical  word  —  "Yorkey!" 

The  spell  was  broken.     "W'y,  gorblimey!"  said 


30      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Hardy,  "Ain't  that  queer?  —  that's  jes'  wot  I  wos  a* 
thinkin'  .  .  .  Well,  Gawd  'elp  Sorjint  Slavin  now!" 
With  which  cryptic  utterance  he  resumed  his  eternal 
polishing. 

"Amen!"  responded  the  farrier  piously,  "Reddy, 
here,  an*  Yorkey  on  th'  same  detachment.  .  .  .  What 
th'  one  don't  know  t'other'll  teach  him.  .  .  .  You'd 
better  let  'em  have  th'  parrot,  too." 

McSporran,  back  on  his  cot  with  hands  clasped  be- 
hind his  head,  gobbled  an  owlish  "Hoot,  mon!  th'  twa  o* 
them  thegither!  .  .  .  Losh!  but  that  beats  a'  .  .  .  but, 
hoo  lang,  O  Lard?  hoo  lang?" 

From  various  sources  George  had  picked  up  the 
broken  ends  of  many  strange  rumours  relating  to  the 
personality  and  escapades  of  one  Constable  Yorke,  of 
the  Davidsburg  detachment,  whom  he  had  never  seen  as 
yet.  A  hint  here,  a  whisper  there,  a  shrug  and  a  low- 
voiced  jest  between  the  sergeant-major  and  the  quarter- 
master, overheard  one  day  in  the  latter's  store.  To 
Redmond  it  seemed  as  if  a  veil  of  mystery  had  always 
enveloped  the  person  and  doings  of  this  man,  Yorke. 
The  glamour  of  it  now  aroused  all  his  latent  curiosity. 

"Why,  what  sort  of  a  chap  is  this  Yorke?"  he  in- 
quired casually. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       ^x 

McCullough,  busily  burnishing  a  bit,  shrugged  dep-» 
recatingly  and  laughed.  Hardy,  putting  the  last 
touches  to  his  revolver-holster,  made  answer,  Georges 
thought,  with  peculiar  reticence. 

"Wot,  Yorkey?  ...  oh,  'e's  a  'oly  terror  'e  is.  .  .  , 
You  arst  Crampton,"  he  mumbled  —  "arst  Taylor — . 
they  wos  at  Davidsburg  wiv  'im.  Slavin's  orl  right 
but  Yorkey!".  .  .  He  looked  unutterable  things. 
"Proper  broken  down  Old  Country  torff  Je  is,  too. 
'E's  right  there  wiv  th'  goods  at  police  work,  they  s'y, 
Jbut  'e's  sure  a  bad  un  to  *ave  to  live  wiv.  Free  weeks 
on'y,  Crampton  stuck  it  afore  'e  applied  for  a  transfer, 
• —  Taylor,  'e  on'y  stuck  it  free  d'ys." 

Redmond  made  a  gesture  of  exasperation.  "Ah-h! 
come  off  the  perch! "  he  snarled  pettishly,  "what  sort  of 
old  'batman's*  gaff  are  you  trying  to  'get  my  goat' 
with?" 

His  display  of  irritation  drew  an  explosive,  mis- 
chievous  cachinnation  from  the  trio. 

"Old  'batman's'  gaff?"  echoed  the  Cockney  grinning, 
"orl  right,  my  fresh  cove  —  this  time  next  week  you'll 
be  tellin'  us  wewer  it's  old  'batman's*  gaff,  or  not." 

Outside,  the  blizzard  still  moaned  and  beat  upon  the 
windows,  packing  the  wind-driven  snow  in  huge  drifts 


32       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

about  the  big  main  building.     Inside,  the  canteen 
roared  — : 

"Then  —  /  —  say,   boy  si    who's    for  a  drink   with  me? 
Rum,  turn!  tiddledy-umt  we'll  have  a  fair  old  spree  I" 

McSporran  slid  off  his  cot  with  surprising  alacrity. 
"Here's  ane!"  he  announced  blithely.  Hardy,  care- 
fully hanging  up  his  spotless,  glossy  equipment  at  the 
head  of  his  cot,  turned  to  the  farrier  who  was  likewise 
.engaged  in  arranging  a  bridle  and  a  pipe-clayed  head- 
rope. 

9 

"Wot  abaht  it,  Mac?"  he  queried  briskly. 

McCullough,  in  turn  looked  at  Redmond.  "All 
right!"  responded  that  young  gentleman  with  a  boyish 
shrug  and  grin,  "come  on  then,  you  bloomin'  old 
sponges!  let's  wet  my  transfer.  I'll  have  time  to  pack 
my  kit  to-morrow,  before  the  West-bound  pulls  out" 

Upon  Iheif  departing  ears,  grown  wearily  familiar 
to  its  monotonous  repetition,  fell  the  parrot's  customary 
adieu,  as  that  disreputable-looking  bird  swung  rhyth- 
-  tnically  to  and  fro  on  its  perch. 

"Goo'  bye! "  it  gabbled,  "A  soldier's  farewell'  to  yeh! 
goo' bye!  goo' bye!" 


CHAPTER  II 

Homeless,  ragged  and  tanned. 
Under  the  changeful  sky; 
Who  so  free  in  the  land? 
Who  so  contented  as  I?. 

THE  VAGABOND   ^ 

THE  long-drawn-out,  sweet  notes  of  "Reveille" 
rang  out  in  the  frosty  dawn.    Reg.  No.  —  Const. 
George  Redmond,  engaged  at  that  moment  in 
pulling  on  his  "fatigue-slacks"  hummed  the  trumpet- 
call's  time-honoured  vocal  parody  — 

"/  sold  a  cow,  I  sold  a  cow,  an'  bought  a  donk-ee — 
Oh — what  —  a  silly  old  sot  you  were!" 

The  room  buzzed  like  a  drowsy  hive  with  hastily 
dressing  men.  Breathing  hotly  on  the  frosted  window- 
pane  next  his  cot,  George  rubbed  a  clear  patch  and 
glued  his  eye  to  it.  The  blizzard  had  died  out  during 
the  night  leaving  the  snow-drifted  landscape  frosty, 
still  and  clear.  A  rapidly  widening  strip  of  blended 
rose  and  pale  turquoise  on  the  eastern  horizon  gave 
promise  of  a  fine  day. 

He  turned  away  with  a  contented  sigh  and,  descend- 

'  33 


34      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

ing  the  stairs,  fell  in  with  the  rest  of  the  fur-coated, 
moccasined  men  on  "Morning  Stable  Parade." 

Three  hours  later,  breakfast  despatched,  blankets 
rolled  and  kit  and  dunnage  bags  packed,  he  received  a 
curt  summons  from  the  sergeant-major  to  attend  the 
Orderly-room.  To  the  brisk  word  of  command  he 
was  "quick-marched"  "Mt-wheeled,"  and  "halted"  at 
"attention"  before  the  desk  o£  the  Officer  Commanding 
L.  Division. 

"Constable  Redmond,  Sir!"  announced  the  deep- 
throated,  rumbling  bass  of  the  sergeant-major;  and  for 
some  seconds  George  gazed  at  the 'silvery  hair  and  wide 
bowed  shoulders  of  the  seated  figure  in  front  of  him, 
'  who' continued  his  perusal  of  some  type-written  sheets 
of  foolscap,  as  if  unaware  of  any  interruption.  Else- 

%t- 

whec?  have  the  kindly  personality  and  eccentricities  of 
Captain  Richard  Bar  grave  been  described;  "but  that," 
as  Kipling  says,  "is  another  story." 

Presently  the  papers  were  cast  aside,  the  bowed 
shoulders  in  the  splendidly-cut  blue-serge  uniform 
squared  back  in  the  chair,  and  Redmond  found  him- 
!  self  being  scrutinized  intently  by  the  all-familiar 
bronzed  old  aristocratic  countenance,. with  its  sweeping 
fair  moustache.  Involutarily  he  stiffened,  though  his 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       35 

eyes,  momentarily  overpowered  by  the  intensity  of 
that  keen  gaze,  strayed  to  the  level  of  his  superior's 
breast  and  focussed  themselves  upon  two  campaign 
ribbons  there,  "North- West  Rebellion"  and  "Ashantee" 
decorations. 

Suddenly  the  thin,  high,  cultured  voice  addressed 
him  —  whimsically  —  sarcastic  but  not  altogether  un- 
kindly: 

"The  Sergeant-Major"  —  the  gold-rimmed  pince-nez 
were  swung  to  an  elevation  indicating  that  individual 
and  the  fair  moustache  was  twirled  pensively  —  "the 
Sergeant-Major  reports  that  —  er  —  for  the  past  six 
months  you  have  been  conducting  yourself  around 
the  Post  with  fair  average"  —  the  suave  tones  hardened 
—  "that  you  have  wisely  refrained  from  indulging 
your  youthful  fancies  in  any  more  such  —  er  —  dam- 
fool  antics,  Sir,  as  characterized  your  merry  but  brief 
career  at  the  Gleichen  detachment,  so  —  er  —  I  have 
decided  to  give  you  another  chance.  I  have  here"  — • 
he  fumbled  through  some  papers  —  "a  request  from 
Sergeant  Slavin  for  another  man  at  Davidsburg.  I 
am  transferring  you  there,  Slavin  —  er  —  damn  the 
man!  damn  the  man!  what's  wrong  with  him,  Sergeant- 
Major?  .  .  .  Two  men  have  I  sent  him  in  as  many 


36      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

months,  and  both  of  'em,  after  a  few  days  there,  on 
some  flimsy  pretext  or  another,  applied  for  transfers 
to  other  detachments.  Good  men,  too.  If  this  occurs 
again  —  damme!"  —  he  glared  at  his  subordinate  — 
"I'll  —  er  —  bring  that  Irish  'ginthleman'  into  the 
Post  for  a  summary  explanation.  Wire  him  of  this 
man's  transfer!  ...  All  right,  Sergeant-Major!" 

"About- turrn! — quick-march!"  growled  again  the 
bass  voice  of  the  senior  non-com;  and  he  kept  step  be- 
hind George  into  the  passage.  "Here's  your  transport 
requisition,  Redmond.  Now  —  take  a  tumble  to  your- 
self, my  lad  —  on  this  detachment.  You're  getting 
what  'Father'  don't  give  to  many  —  a  second  chance. 
Good-bye!" 

George  gripped  the  proffered  hand  and  looked  full 
into  the  kindly,  meaning  eyes.  "Good-bye,  S.M. ! "  he 
said  huskily,  "Thanks!" 

Westward,  the  train  puffed  its  way  slowly  along  a 
slight,  but  continual  up-grade  through  the  foothills, 
following  more  or  less  the  winding  course  of  the  Bow 
River.  Despite  the  cold,  clear  brilliance  of  the  day, 
seen  under  winter  conditions  the  landscape  on  either 
side  of  the  track  presented  a  rather  forlorn,  dreary 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED      37 

picture.  So  it  appeared  to  George,  anyway,  as  he 
gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  vast,  spreading,  white- 
carpeted  valley,  the  monotonous  aspect  of  which  was 
only  occasionally  relieved  by  sparsely-dotted  ranches, 
small  wayside  stations,  or  when  they  thundered  across 
high  trestle  bridges  over  the  partly-frozen,  black, 
steaming  river. 

Two  summers  earlier  he  had  travelled  the  same  road, 
on  a  luxurious  trip  to  the  Coast.  The  memory  of  its 
scenic  splendor  then,  the  easy-going  stages  from  one 
sumptuous  mountain  resort  to  another,  now  made  him 
feel  slightly  dismal  and  discontented  with  his  present 
lot.  Eye-restful  solace  came  however  with  the  sight  of 
the  ever-nearing  glorious  sun-crowned  peaks  of  the 
mighty  "Rockies,"  sharply  silhouetted  against  the 
dazzling  blue  of  the  sky. 

Children's  voices  behind  him  suddenly  broke  in  upon 
his  reverie. 

"That  man!"  said  a  small  squeaking  treble,  "was  a 
hobo.  He  was  sitting  in  that  car  in  front  with  the  hard 
seats  an'  I  went  up  to  him  an'  I  said,  'Hullo,  Mister! 
why  don't  you  wash  your  face  an'  shave  it?  we've  all 
washed  our  faces  this  morning'.  .  .  .  We  did,  didn't 
we,  Alice?  —  an'  washed  Porkey's  too,  an'  he  said 


38      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

'Hullo,  Bo!  wash  my  face?  —  I  don't  have  to— »I 
might  catch  cold.' " 

"But  Jerry!"  said  another  child's  voice,  "I  don't 
think  he  could  have  been  a  real  hobo,  or  he'd  have  had 
an  empty  tomato-can  hanging  around  his  neck  on  a 
string,  like  the  pictures  of  'Weary  Willie'  an'  'Tired 
Tim'  in  the  funny  papers." 

Then  ensued  the  sounds  as  of  a  juvenile  scuffle  and 
squawk.  Master  Jerry  apparently  resented  having  his 
pet  convictions  treated  in  this  "Doubting  Thomas" 
fashion,  for  the  next  thing  George  heard  him  say,  was: 
"Goozlemy,  goozlemy,  goozlemy!  .  .  .  No!  he  hadn't 
got  a  tomato-can,  silly!  but  he'd  got  a  big,  fat  bottle  in 
his  pocket  an'  he  pulled  the  cork  out  of  it  an'  sucked 
an'  I  said  'What  have  you  got  in  your  bottle?'  an'  he 
said  'Cold  tea'  but  it  didn't  smell  a  bit  like  cold  tea. 
There's  a  Mounted  Policeman  sitting  in  that  seat  in 
front  of  us.  Let's  ask  him.  Policemen  always  lock 
hoboes  up  in  gaol  an'  kick  them  in  the  stomach,  like 
you  see  them  in  the  pictures." 

The  next  instant  there  came  a  pattering  of  little 
feet  and  two  small  figures  scrambled  into  the  vacant 
seat  in  front  of  Redmond.  His  gaze  fell  on  a  diminu- 
tive, red-headed,  inquisitive-faced  urchin  of  some  eight 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       39 

years,  and  a  small,  gray-eyed,  wistful-looking  maiden, 
perhaps  about  a  year  younger,  with  hair  that  matched 
the  boy's  in  colour.  Under  one  dimpled  arm  she 
clutched  tightly  to  her  —  upside-down  —  a  fat,  squirm- 
ing fox-terrier  puppy.  Hand-in-hand,  in  an  attitude  of 
breathless,  speculative  awe,  they  sat  there  bolt  upright,,  - 
like  two  small  gophers;  watching  intently  the  face  of 
the  uniformed  representative  of  the  Law,  as  if  seeking 
some  reassuring  sign. 

It  came  presently  —  a  kind,  boyish,  friendly  smile 
that  gained  the  confidence  of  their  little  hearts  at 
once. 

"Hullo,  nippers!"  he  said  cheerily. 

"Hullo!"  the  two  small  trebles  responded. 

"What's  your  name,  son?" 
,     "Jerry!" 

"Jerry  what?" 

An  uneasy  wriggle  and  a  moment's  hesitation  then  — • 
"Jeremiah!"  came  a  small  —  rather  sulky  —  voice. 

Breathing  audibly  hi  her  intense  eagerness  the  little 
girl  now  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Please,  policeman?"  she  stopped  and  gulped  ex- 
citedly—  "please,  policeman?  —  he  doesn't  like  to  be 
called  that.  ...  It  isn't  his  fault.  He  always  throws 


40      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

stones  at  the  bad  boys  when  they  call  him  that.  Call 
him  just  'Jerry.' " 

That  gamin,  turning  from  a  minute  examination  of 
Redmond's  spurred  moccasins,  began  to  swing  his 
chubby  legs  and  bounce  up  and  down  upon  the  cush- 
ioned seat. 

"Her  name's  Alice,"  he  volunteered,  with  a  sidelong 
fling  of  his  carrot- tinted  head.  "Yes!  she's  my  sister" 
—  he  made  a  snatch  at  the  pup  whose  speedy  demise 
was  threatened,  from  blood  to  the  head  —  "don't  hold 
Porkey  that  way,  Alice!  his  eyes'll  drop  out." 

But  his  juvenile  confrere  shrugged  away  from  his 
clutch.  "Stupid!"  she  retorted,  with  fine  scorn,  "no 
they  won't.  .  .  .  it's  on'y  guinea  pigs  that  do  that!  — 
when  you  hold  them  up  by  their  tails."  Nevertheless 
she  promptly  reversed  that  long-suffering  canine,  which 
immediately  demonstrated  its  gratitude  by  licking  her 
face  effusively. 

The  all-important  question  of  the  hobo  was  next 
commended  to  his  attention,  with  a  tremendous  amount 
of  chattering  rivalry,  and,  with  intense  gravity  he  was 
cogitating  how  to  render  a  satisfactory  finding  to  both 
factions  when  steps,  and  the  unmistakable  rustle  of 
skirts,  sounded  in  his  immediate  rear.  Then  a  lady's 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED      41 

voice  said,  "Oh,  there  you  are,  children!  ...  I  was 
wondering  where  you'd  got  to." 

The  two  heads  bobbed  up  simultaneously,  with  a  joy- 
ful "Here's  Mother!"  and  George,  turning,  glanced 
with  innate,  well-bred  curiosity  at  a  stout,  pleasant- 
faced,  middle-aged  woman  who  stood  beside  them. 

"I  hope  these  young  imps  haven't  been  bothering 
you?"  she  said.  "We  were  in  that  car  behind,  but  I  was 
reading  and  they've  been  having  a  great  time  romping 
all  over  the  place.  Oh,  well!  I  suppose  it's  too  much 
to  expect  children  to  keep  still  on  a  train." 

With  a  fond  motherly  caress  she  patted  the  two  small 
flaming  heads  that  now  snuggled  boisterously  against 
her  on  either  side. 

"Come  now!  Messrs.  Bubble  and  Squeak!"  she  urged 
teasingly,  "march!  — back  to  our  car  again!" 

"Bubble  and  Squeak"  seemed  appropriate  enough 
just  then,  to  judge  by  the  many  fractious  objections  im- 
mediately voiced  by  those  two  small  mutineers.  They 
were  loth  to  part  with  their  latest  acquaintance  and 
weren't  above  advertising  that  fact  with  unnecessary 
vehemence.  Even  the  puppy  raised  a  snuffling  whine. 

"Boo-hoo!"  wailed  Jerry,  "don't  want  to  go  in  the 
other  car  —  me  an'  Alice  want  to  stay  here  —  trie 
policeman's  goin'  to  tell  us  all  about  hoboes  —  he  —  " 


42       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Oh,  dear!"  came  a  despairing  little  sigh,  "what- 
ever —  " 

Their  eyes  met  and,  at  the  droll  perplexity  he  read 
in  hers,  George  laughed  outright.  An  explosive  frank 
boyish  laugh.  He  rose  with  a  courteous  gesture.  "I'm 
afraid  it's  a  case  of  'if  the  mountain  won't  come  to 
Mahomet,' ':  he  began,  with  gay  sententiousness. 
"Won't  you  sit  down?" 

The  matron's  kindly  eyes  appraised  the  bold,  manly 
young  face  a  moment,  then,  with  a  certain  leisurely 
grace,  she  stepped  in  between  the  seats  and,  seating  her- 
self, lugged  her  two  small  charges  down  beside  her. 

"I  suppose,  under  the  circumstances,  an  old  woman 
like  me  can  discard  the  conventionalities?"  she  re- 
marked smilingly. 

Jerry  and  Alice  leered  triumphantly  at  their  victim. 
"Now!"  Jerry  shrilled  exactingly  "tell  us  all  about 
hoboes ! " 

"They  do  carry  empty  tomato-cans,  don't  they?" 
pleaded  Alice. 

It  was  now  their  guardian's  turn  to  laugh  at  his 
dismay.  "You  see  what  you've  let  yourself  in  for 
now?"  she  remarked. 

"Seems  I  am  up  against  it,"  he  admitted,  with  a 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       43 

rueful  grin,  "well!  must  make  good  somehow,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

With  an  infinitely  boyish  gesture  he  tipped  his  fur 
cap  to  the  back  of  his  head  and  leaned  forward  with 
finger-tips  compressed  in  approved  story-telling 
fashion. 

"Once  upon  a  time! — "  a  breathless  "Yes-s" — • 
those  two  small  faces  reminded  him  much  of  terriers 
watching  a  rat-hole  —  "there  was  a  hobo."  He  thought 
hard.  "He  was  a  very  dirty  old  hobo  —  he  never  used 
to  wash  his  face.  He  was  walking  along  the  road  one 
day  when  he  heard  a  little  wee  voice  call  out  'Hey!7 
He  looked  down  and  he  saw  an  empty  tomato-can  on 
a  rubbish  heap.  Tomato-cans  used  to  be  able  to  talk  in 
those  days  and  the  hoboes  were  very  good  to  them  — 
always  used  to  drink  out  of  them  and  carry  them  to  save 
them  from  walking.  This  can  had  a  picture  of  its  big 
red  face  on  the  outside.  'Give  us  a  lift?'  said  the  can. 
'Where  to?'  said  the  old  hobo.  'Back  to  California, 
where  I  came  from,'  said  the  can.  'All  right!'  said  the 
old  hobo,  'I'm  goin'  there,  too.'  And  he  picked  the  can 
up  and  hung  it  round  his  neck  and  kept  on  walking  till 
they  came  to  a  house.  The  window  of  the  house  was 
open  and  they  could  see  a  big  fat  bottle  on  a  little  table. 


44      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

'Ah! '  said  the  old  hobo  'here's  an  old  friend  of  mine!  — • 
he's  comin'  with  us,  too.'  And  he  shoved  his  arm 
through  the  window  and  put  the  bottle  in  his  pocket. 
By  and  by  they  came  to  a  river  —  'Hey!'  said  the 
can,  again  —  'What's  up?'  said  the  old  hobo  —  'I'm 
dry/  said  the  can  —  'So  am  I,'  said  the  hobo;  and  he 
dipped  the  can  in  the  water  and  gave  it  a  very  little 
drink.  'Hey!'  said  the  can,  'give  us  a  drop  more!'  — 
'Wait  a  bit!'  said  the  old  hobo,  and  he  pulled  the  cork 
out  of  the  bottle.  'Don't  you  pour  any  of  that  feller 
into  me!'  said  the  can,  'he'll  burn  my  inside  out  —  an' 
yours  —  if  you  pour  him  into  me  I'll  open  my  mouth 
where  I'm  soldered  and  let  him  run  out,  and  you  won't 
be  able  to  drink  out  of  me  any  more.  Chuck  him  into 
the  river!  — he's  no  good.' 

"  'You  shut  your  mouth!'  said  the  old  hobo,  'or  I'll 
chuck  you  into  the  river ! '  And  he  poured  some  of  the 
stuff  out  of  the  bottle  into  the  can  — " 

At  this  exciting  point  poor  George  halted  for  breath 
and  mopped  his  forehead.  He  felt  fully  as  thirsty  as 
the  tomato-can.  But  the  children  were  upon  him, 
clutching  his  scarlet  tunic: 

"What  did  he  do  then?"  howled  Jerry. 

"Eh?"   gasped    the   young   policeman,  —  "oh,    he 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       45 

opened  his  mouth  where  he  was  soldered  and  let  the 
stuff  run  out.  So  the  old  hobo  threw  him  into  the  river. 
That's  why  hoboes  always  pack  a  bottle  with  them  now 
instead  of  a  tomato-can." 

He  leaned  back  with  a  sigh  and,  thrusting  his  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets,  smiled  wanly  at  his  vis-a-vis. 

"There!"  he  said,  with  feeble  triumph,  "I've  carried 
out  the  sentence." 

And  it  did  him  good  to  drink  in  her  mirthful,  waggish 
laugh. 

"Yes!"  she  conceded  gaily,  "you  certainly  did 
great  execution,  though  you  look  more  like  a  prisoner 
just  reprieved." 

Jerry,  screwing  up  his  small  snub  nose  leered  trium- 
phantly across  her  lap  at  Alice.  "Goozlemy,  goozlemy, 
goozlemy!"  he  squeaked,  "that  man  was  a  real  hobo." 

His  grimace  was  returned  with  interest.  Alice 
hugged  her  puppy  awhile  contentedly,  murmuring  in 
that  canine's  ear,  "What  a  silly  old  thing  that  tomato- 
can  must  have  been.  If  I'd  been  him  I'd  have  kept 
my  mouth  shut." 

"Cow  Run!"  intoned  the  brakeman  monotonously, 
passing  through  the  coaches,  "Cow  Run  next  stop!" 
His  eye  fell  on  Redmond.  "Wish  I'd  seen  you  before, 


46      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Officer!"  he  remarked,  "I'd  have  had  a  hobo  for  you, 
Beggar  stole  a  ride  on  us  from  Glenbow,  back  there. 
The  con's  goin'  to  chuck  him  off  here  —  do  you  want 
him?" 

"No!"  said  Redmond  shortly,  "let  the  stiff  go  —  I'm 
going  on  to  Davidsburg  —  haven't  got  time  to  get 
messing  around  with  Vags'  now." 

The  train  began  to  .slow  down  and  presently  stopped 
at  a  small  station.  Mechanically  the  quartette  gazed 
through  the  window  at  the  few  shivering  platform 
loungers,  and  beyond  them  to  the  irregular,  low-lying 
fagade  of  snow-plastered  buildings  that  comprised  the 
dreary  main  street  of  the  little  town. 

Suddenly  the.  children  uttered  a  shrill  yelp. 

"There  he  is!"  cried  Alice,  darting  a  small  finger  at 
the  window-paiie. 

"I  saw  hinx  first!"  bawled  Jerry. 

And,  slouching  past  along  the  platform,  all  huddled- 
up  with  hands  in  pockets,  George  beheld  a  ragged  non- 
descript of  a  man  whose  appearance  confirmed  Master 
Jerry's  previous  'assertion  beyond  doubt. 

The  children  drummed  on  the  window  excitedly. 
Glancing  up  at  the  two  small  peering  faces  the  human 
derelict's  red-nosed,  stubble-coated  visage  contorted 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       47 

itself  into  a  friendly  grimace  of  recognition;  at  the  same 
time,  with  an  indescribably  droll,  swashbuckling 
swagger  he  doffed  a  shocking  dunghill  of  a  hat. 

Suddenly  though  his  jaw  dropped  and,  replacing  his 
battered  headpiece,  with  double-handed  indecent  haste 
the  knight  of  the  road  executed  an  incredibly  nimble 
"right-about  turn"  and  vanished  behind  the  station- 
house.  Just  then  came  the  engine's  toot!  toot! ,  the  con- 
ductor's warning  "All  aboar-rd!"  and  the  train  started 
once  more  on  its  journey  westward. 

Smiling  grimly  to  himself,  the  policeman  settled 
back  in  his  seat  again  and  glanced  across  at  the  lady. 
She  was  shaking  with  convulsive  laughter. 

"Oh!"  she  giggled  hysterically  "he  —  he  must  have 
seen  your  red  coat!"  another  spasm  of  merriment,  "it 
was  as  good  as  a  pantomime,"  she  murmured. 

Evincing  a  keen  interest  in  his  soldierly  vocation, 
for  awhile  she  subjected  him  to  an  exacting  and  minute 
inquisition  anent  the  duties  and  life  of  a  Mounted 
Policeman.  In  this  agreeable  fashion  the  time  passed 
rapidly  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  regret  that  he 
heard  the  brakeman  announce  his  destination  and  rose 
to  take  leave  of  his  pleasant  companion.  The  children 
insisted  on  bidding  their  late  chum  a  cuddling,  oscula- 


48       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

tory  farewell. —  Alice  tearfully  holding  up  the  snuffling 
Porkey  for  his  share.  The  train  drew  up  at  the  Davids- 
burg  platform,  there  came  a  chorus  of  "Good-byes"  and 
a  few  minutes  later  George  was  left  alone  with  his  kit- 
bags  on  the  deserted  platform. 


CHAPTER   in 

St.  Agnes'  Eve.    Ah!  bitter  chill  it  was. 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-Cold; 
The  hare  limped,  trembling,  through  the  frozen  grass; 

And   drowsy   was   the   flock    in   woolly   fold. 

ST.  AGNES'  EVE 

REDMOND  did  not  have  to  wait  long.    Sounding 
faint  and  far  off  .came  the  silvery  ring  of  sleigh- 
bells,  gradually  swelling  in  volume  until}  with 
a  measured  crunch!  crunch!  of  hoofs  on  packed  *now, 
a  smart  Police  cutter,  drawn  by  a  splendid  bay  team, 
swung  around  a  bend  of  the  trail  and  pulled  up  at  the 
platform.     Redmond  regarded  with  a  little  awe  the' 
huge,  bear-like,  uniformed  figure  of  the  teamster,  whom 
he  identified  at  once  from  barrack  gossip. 

; 

"Sergeant  Slavin?"  he  enquired  respectfully,  eyeing 
the  bronzed,  clean-shaven  face,  half  hidden  by  fur  cap 
and  turned-up  collar. 

"Meself,  lad!"  came  a  rich  soft  brogue,  "I  was 
afther  gettin'  a  wire  from  th'  O.C.,  tellin'  me  he  was 
thransfering  me  another  man.  Yer  name's  Ridmond, 
ain't  it?  —  Whoa,  now!  T  an'  B I— lively  wid  thim 

49 


SO       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

kit-bags,  son! — team's  pretty  fresh  an'  will  not 
shtand." 

They  swung  off  at  a  spanking  trot.  George  surveyed 
the  white-washed  cattle-corrals  and  few  scattered 
shacks  which  seemed  to  comprise  the  hamlet  of 
Davidsburg. 

"Not  a  very  big  place,  Sergeant?"  he  remarked,  "how 
far's  the  detachment  from  here?" 

"On'y  'bout  a  mile"  grunted  the  individual,  squirting 
a  stream  of  tobacco-juice  to  leeward,  "up  on  the  high 
ground  beyant.  Nay!  'tis  just  a  jumpin'  off  place  an' 
shippin*  point  for  th'  ranches  hereabouts.  Business  is 
mostly  done  at  Cow  Run  —  East.  Ye  passed  ut, 
comin'.  Great  doin's  there  —  whin  th'  cowpunchers 
blow  in.  Some  burg!" 

"Sure  looked  it!"  Redmond  agreed  absently,  think- 
ing of  the  casual  glimpse  he  had  got  of  the  dreary  main 
street. 

They  were  climbing  a  slight  grade.  The  sun-glare 
on  the  snow  was  intense;  the  cutter's  steel  runners  no 
longer  screeched,  and  the  team's  hoofs  began  to  clog 
up  with  soft  snow. 

"They're  'balling-up'  pretty  bad,  Sergeant!"  re- 
marked Redmond.  And,  as  he  spoke  the  "off"  horse 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       51 

suddenly  slipped  and  fell,  and,  plunging  to  its  feet 
again,  a  leg  slid  over  the  cutter's  tongue. 

"Whoa,  now!  whoa!"  barked  Slavin,  with  an  oath, 
as  the  mettled,  high-strung  animal  began  to  kick 
affrightedly.  Slipping  again  it  sank  down  in  the  snow 
and  remained  still  for  some  tense  moments. 

Like  a  flash  Redmond  sprang  from  the  cutter,  and 
rapidly  and  warily  he  unhooked  the  team's  traces. 
This  done  he  crept  to  their  heads  and  slipped  the  end 
of  the  tongue  out  of  the  neck-yoke  ring.  Slavin  by  this 
time  was  also  on  his  feet  in  the  snow,  with  the  situation 
well  in  hand.  He  clucked  softly  to  his  team,  the  fallen 
horse  plunged  to  its  feet  again  and  the  next  moment 
all  was  clear.  George,  burrowing  around  in  the  snow 
unearthed  a  big  stone,  with  which  he  proceeded  to  tap 
the  team's  shoes  all  round  until  the  huge  snow-clogs 
fell  out.  In  silence  the  two  men  hooked  up  again  and 
were  soon  on  their  way. 

"H-mm!"  grunted  the  big  Irishman  at  last,  eyeing 
his  subordinate  with  a  sidelong  glance  of  approval, 
"h-mm!  teamster?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Sergeant"  responded  Redmond 
deprecatingly,  "of  course  I've  been  around  teams  some 
—  down  East,  on  the  old  man's  farm.  .  .  I  don't 


52       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

know  that  I  can  claim  to  be  a  real  teamster  —  as  you 
judge  them  in  the  Force." 

"H-mm!"  grunted  Slavin  again,  "ye  seem  tu  have  th' 
makin's  anyway."  He  expectorated  musingly.  "Wan 
time  —  down  at  Coutts  'twas  —  a  young  feller  was 
sint  tu  me  for  tu  dhrive.  Mighty  chipper  gossoon, 
tu.  'Teamster?'  sez  I  —  'Some!'  sez  he,  as  if  he  was 
a  reg'Iar  gun  at  th'  business  —  'but  I'm  gen'rally 
reckoned  handier  wid  a  foursome  'n  a  single  team.' ' 

"  'Oh!'  sez  I,  'fwhere?'  An'  he  tould  me  —  Regina. 
Sez  I  thin  '  'tis  Skinner  Adams's  undershtudy  ye  must 
have  bin?  —  for  he  was  Reg'mentil  Teamster  Sarjint 
there,  an'  sure  fwas  a  great  man  wid  a  four-in-hand 
team.' " 

"  'Fwat,  ould  Skinner  Adams?'  sez  me  bould  lad, 
kind  av  contempshus-like,  'Humph!  at  shtringin*  out 
four  I  have  Skinner  Adams  thrimmed  tu  a  peak.'  We 
was  dhrivin'  from  th'  station  tu  th'  detachmint  —  same 
like  tu  we're  doin'  now.  Whin  we  gits  in  I  unhitches 
an'  puts  up  th'  team.  'Give  us  a  hand  tu  shling  th' 
harniss  off ! '  sez  I  tu  him  —  an'  me  shmart  Aleck  makes 
a  shtab  at  ut  wid  th'  nigh  horse.  He  was  not  quite  so 
chipper  —  thin,  an'  I  noticed  his  hands  thremblin',  an* 
he  was  all  th'  time  watchin'  me  close  how  I  did  wid 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       53 

th'  off  harse.  I  dhraws  off  wid  th'  britchin'  on  me 
arrum  —  'Come! '  sez  I  —  an'  he  shtarts  in  —  unbuck- 
Un'  th'  top  hame-shtrap. 

"  'As  ye  were! '  sez  I  'that's  enough!  I'm  thinkin'  th' 
on'y  "four"  you  iver  shtrung  out  me  young  flapdhoodle 
was  a  gang  av  prisoners,  an'  blarney  me  sowl !  ye  shall 
go  back  tu  th'  Post  right  now,  an'  du  prisoner's  escort 
agin  for  awhile.' " 

They  had  now  reached  the  top  of  the  grade  where  the 
trail  swung  due  east,  and  faced  a  dazzling  sun  and 
cutting  wind  which  whipped  the  blood  to  their  cheeks 
and  made  their  eyes  water. 

"Behould  our  counthry  eshtate!"  said  Sergeant 
Slavin  grandiloquently,  with  an  airy  wave  of  his  arm, 
"beyant  that  big  pile  av  shtones  on  th'  road-allowance." 

He  chirped  to  his  team  which  broke  into  an  even, 
fast  trot,  and  presently  they  drew  up  outside  a  building 
typical  in  its  outside  appearance  of  the  usual  range 
Mounted  Police  detachment.  It  was  a  fairly  large 
dwelling,  roughly  but  substantially-built  of  squared 
logs,  painted  in  customary  fashion,  with  the  walls  — 
white,  and  the  shingled  roof  —  red.  A  strongly- 
guyed  flagstaff  jutting  out  from  one  gable,  and  copies  of 
the  "Game"  and  "Fire  Acts"  tacked  on  the  door  gave 


54      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

the  abode  an  unmistakable  official  aspect.  Over  the 
doorway  was  nailed  a  huge,  prehistoric-looking  buffalo- 
skull,  bleached  white  with  the  years  —  the  time-hon- 
oured insignia  of  the  R.N.W.M.P.  being  a  buffalo-head, 
which  is  also  stamped  on  the  regimental  badge  and  button. 

Dumping  off  the  kit-bags,  the  two  men  drove  round 
to  the  stable  in  the  rear  of  the  main  dwelling,  where 
they  unhitched  and  put  up  the  team.  The  sergeant  led 
the  way  into  the  house.  Passing  through  a  small  store- 
house and  kitchen  they  emerged  into  the  living  room. 
On  a  miniature  scale  it  was  a  replica  of  one  of  the  Post 
barrack-rooms,  except  that  the  table  boasted  a  tartan- 
rugged  covering,  that  two  or  three  easy  chairs  were 
scattered  around,  and  some  calfskin  mats  partially 
covered  the  painted  hardwood  floor.  The  walls,  for 
the  most  part  were  adorned  with  many  unframed 
copies  of  pictures  from  the  brush  of  that  great  Western 
artist,  Charles  Russell,  and  black  and  white  sketches 
cut  from  various  illustrated  papers.  Three  corners  of 
the  room  contained  cots,  one  of  which  the  sergeant 
assigned  to  Redmond.  The  room,  with  its  big  stove, 
in  a  way  looked  comfortable  enough,  and  was  regi- 
mentally  neat  and  clean  and  homelike. 

George  peered  into  the  front  room  beyond  which 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       55 

bore  quite  a  judicial  aspect.  At  one  end  of  it  a  small 
dais  supported  a  severe-looking  arm-chair  and  a  long 
flat  desk,  on  which  were  piled  foolscap,  blank  legal 
forms,  law-books,  and  the  Bible.  In  front  was  a  long, 
form-like  bench,  with  a  back  to  it.  At  the  rear  of  the 
room  were  two  strongly-built  cells,  with  barred  doors. 
Around  the  walls  were  scattered  a  double  row  of  small 
chairs  and,  on  a  big,  green-baize-covered  board  next  the 
cells  hung  a  brightly  burnished  assortment  of  handcuffs 
and  leg-irons. 

"  'Tis  here  we  hould  coort,"  Slavin  informed  him, 
"whin  we  have  any  shtiffs  tu  be  thried." 

Opening  the  front  door  George  lugged  in  his  bedding 
and  kit-bags  and,  depositing  them  on  his  cot,  flung  off 
his  fur  coat,  cap,  and  serge.  Slavin  divested  himself 
likewise  and,  as  the  burly,  bull-necked  man  stood  there, 
slowly  filling  his  pipe,  Redmond  was  able  to  scan  the 
face  and  massive  proportions  of  his  superior  more 
closely. 

Standing  well  over  six  feet,  for  the  presentment  of 
vast,  though  perchance  clumsy,  gorilla-like  strength, 
George  reflected  with  slight  awe  that  he  had  never  seen 
the  man's  equal.  His  wide-spreading  shoulders  were 
more  rounded  than  square;  his  deep,  arching  chest,. 


56      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

powerful,  stocky  nether  limbs  and  disproportionately 
long,  huge-biceped  arms  seeming  to  fit  him  as  an  ex- 
ponent of  the  mat  rather  than  the  gloves.  Truly  a 
daunting  figure  to  meet  in  a  close-quarter,  rough-and- 
tumble  encounter!  thought  Redmond.  The  top  of  his 
head  was  completely  bald;  his  thick,  straight  black 
brows  indicating  that  what  little  close-cropped  iron- 
gray  hair  remained  must  originally  have  been  coal- 
black  in  colour.  His  Irish-blue  eyes,  alternately 
dreamy  and  twinklingly  alert,  were  deeply  set  in  a 
high-cheeked-boned,  bronzed  face,  with  a  long  upper- 
lipped,  grimly-humorous  mouth.  Its  expression  in 
repose  gave  subtle  warning  that  its  owner  possessed  in 
a  marked  degree  the  strongly  melancholic,  emotional, 
and  choleric  temperament  of  his  race.  There  was  no 
moroseness  —  no  hardness  in  it,  but  rather  the  taci- 
turnity that  invariably  settles  upon  the  face  of  those 
dwellers  of  the  range  who,  perforce,  live  much  alone 
.  with  their  thoughts.  Sheathed  in  mail  and  armed, 
that  face  and  bulky  figure  to  some  imaginations  might 
have  found  its  prototype  in  some  huge,  grim,  war-worn 
"man-at-arms"  of  mediaeval  times.  Redmond  judged 
him  to  be  somewhere  in  his  forties;  forty- two  was  his 
exact  age  as  he  ascertained  later. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       37 

In  curious  contrast  to  his  somewhat  formidable 
exterior  seemed  his  mild,  gentle,  soft-brogued  voice. 
And,  with  speech,  his  taciturn  face  relaxed  insensibly 
into  an  almost  genial  expression,  George  noted. 

Attracted  by  a  cluster  of  pictures  and  photographs 
above  and  around  the  cot  in  the  corner  opposite  his 
own,  the  young  fellow  crossed  over  and  scanned  them 
attentively.  Tacked  up  with  a  random,  reckless  hand, 
the  bizarre  collection  was  typically  significant  of  some- 
one's whimsical,  freakish  tastes  and  personality.  From 
the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  —  and  worse  —  subjects 
pious  and  impious,  dreamily-beautiful  and  lewdly- 
vulgar,  comic  and  tragic,  also  many  splendid  photo- 
graphs were  all  jumbled  together  on  the  walls  in  a 
shockingly  irresponsible  fashion.  Many  of  the  pic- 
tures were  unframed  copies  cut  apparently  from  art 
and  other  journals;  from  theatrical  and  comic  papers. 

George  gazed  on  them  awhile  in  utterly  bewildered 
astonishment;  then,  with  a  little  hopeless  ejaculation, 
swung  around  to  the  sergeant  who  met  his  despairing 
grin  with  benign  composure. 

"Whose  cot's  —  " 

"  'Tis  Yorke's,"  said  Slavin  simply.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  mentioned  that  individual's  name.  He 


S8      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 
struck  a  match  on  the  seat  of  his  pants  and  standing 
with.his  feet  apart  and  hands  clasped  behind  his  back 
smoked  awhile  contentedly. 

"Saw  ye  iver  th'  like  av  that  for  divarsiment?"  he 
continued,  with  a  wave  of  his  pipe  at  the  heterogeneous 
array,  "shtudy  thim!  an',  by  an'  large ;. ye  have  th'  man 
tisilf.    He'saway  on  pay-day  duty  at  th'  Coalmore 
mines  ; west  ay  Tiere-  though  by   token,   'tis   Billy 
Blythe-at  Banff  shud  be  doin>  ut,  'stead  av.mehavm'  tu 
m  a  man  .from  here?  He  shud  be  back^on  Number 
.Four  th' night." 

His  twinklingorfeuader  thetf  biaksmudge  of  eye-  ' 
row  appraised  the  junior  constable  with^fatat,' musing  • 

•'A  quare  chap  Is  torfcey,"  he  continued 
-shielding  a  matdi-flame  aria . puffing  -with 
•  respiration -a    good  •  polisman - kiiows    th' 
--.miaal  Code  from  A  tu  Z  -  eyah !  but  mighty  qtoe 
.msdoutt  how  th'  tu  av  yez  wili  get  along."  He  sighed 
«*!}•:  :-,alf  to  himself,  "I  may  !mve  tu  tate 

' 


rather  -ominous  bsg?nnir.      : 

bing-  his  natural  curiosity,  he  Tesoli,  Id  ha' 

peace/awaiting  more  enlightenment.     Th  bein^ 

X        i.1  •  *    '         K-'diii^ 

fortncommg-his  superior  having' relapsed  01Jce  more 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       59 

into  taciturn  silence  —  he  turned  again  to  Yorke's  ex- 
hibits with  pondering  interest.  Sounding  far-off  and 
indistinct  in  the  frosty  stillness  of  the  bleak  foothills 
came  the  faint  echoes  of  a  coyote's  shrill  "ki-yip- 
yapping"  —  again  and  again,  as  if  endeavouring  to 
convey  some  insidious  message.  George  continued  to 
stare  at  the  pictures.  Gad!  what  a  strange  fantastic 

&••'  • 

mind  the  man  must  have!  he  mused  — what  rotten, 
erratic  desecration  to  shove  pictures  indiscriminately 
together  like  that!  .  .  .  Lack  c-f  space  was  no  excuse. 
Millet's  "Angelus,"  "Ally  Sloper  at  the  Derby,"  a  splen- 
did lithograph  of  "The  Angel  of  Pity  at  the  Well  of 
Cawnpore,"  Lottie  Collins,  scantily*  attired,  in  her  song 

.  and  dance  "Tara-ra-ra-boom-de-ay  "  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton's  "Wedded,"  a  gruesome  depiction  of  a 
Chinese  execution  at  Canton,  an  old-fashioned  en- 
graving of  that  dashing,  debonair  cavalry  officer, 

'"Major  Hodson,"  of  Indian  Mutiny  fame,  George- 
Robey,  as  a  nurse-maid,  wheeling  Little  Tich  in  a  per- 
ambulator, the  grim,  torture-lined  face  of  Slatin  Pasha, 
a  ridiculously  obscene  picture  entitled  "Two  coons 
scoffing  oysters  for  a  wager,"  that  glorious  edifice  the 
"Taj  Mahal"  of  India,  and  so  on.  "Divarsiment" 
indeed!  I 


60      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

To  this  ill-assorted  admixture  three  exceptions  only 
were  grouped  with  any  sense  of  reason.  The  central 
picture  was  a  beautifully  coloured  reproduction  of 
Sir  Hubert  Herkomer's  famous  masterpiece  "The  Last 
Muster."  Lovers  of  art  subjects  are  doubtless  familiar 
with  this  immortal  painting.  It  depicts  a  pathetic 
congregation  of  old,  white-haired,  war-worn  pensioners 
attending  divine  service  in  the  chapel  of  Old  Chelsea 
Hospital,  with  the  variegated  lights  from  the  stained- 
glass  windows  flooding  them  with  soft  gentle  colours. 
Flanking  it  on  either  side  were  portraits  of  the  original 
founders  of  this  historical  institution  in  1692  —  Charles 
II  (The  Merry  Monarch)  and  his  kindly-hearted  "light 
o'  love"  Sweet  Nell  Gwynn  of  Old  Drury. 

With  curiously  mixed  feelings  George  finally  tore 
himself  away  from  Yorke's  pathetically  grotesque 
attempt  at  wall-adornment.  Strive  as  he  would  within 
his  soul  to  ridicule,  the  pictures  seemed  somehow  al- 
most to  shout  at  him  with  hidden  meaning.  As 
if  a  voice  —  a  drunken  voice,  but  gentlemanly  withal 
—  was  hiccuping  in  his  ear:  "Paradise  Lost,  old  man! 
(hie)  Paradise  Lost!" 

And,  mixed  with  it,  came  again  out  of  the  silence  of 
the  foothills  the  coyote's  faintly  persistent  mocking  wail 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       61 

—  its  "ki-yip-yap"  sounding  almost  like  "Bah!  Yah! 
Baa!"  .  .  .  Some  lines  of  an  old  quotation,  picked  up 
he  knew  not  where,  wandered  into  his  mind  — 

Comedy,  Tragedy,  Laughter  and  Tears  1 
Thou'rt  rolled  as  one  in  the  Dust  of  Years! 

With  a  sigh  he  turned  to  his  own  cot  and  began  to 
unpack  and  arrange  his  kit;  in  regulation  fashion,  and 
with  such  small  faddy  fixings  customary  to  men  inured 
to  barrack  life.  Thus  engaged  the  time  passed  rapidly. 
Later  in  the  day  he  assisted  the  sergeant  in  making  out 
the  detachment's  "monthly  returns"  and  diary.  This 
task  accomplished,  in  the  gathering  dusk  he  attended 
"Evening  Stables."  There  were  two  saddle-horses  be- 
side the  previously-mentioned  team.  A  splendid  up- 
standing pair,  George  thought  them.  He  was  good 
with  horses;  possessing  the  faculty  of  handling  them 
that  springs  only  from  a  patient,  kindly,  instinctive 
love  of  animals. 

"Nay!  I  dhrive  mostly,"  Slavin  was  telling  him, 
"buckboard  an*  team's  away  handier  for  a  man  av 
weight  like  meself.  Eyah!"  he  sighed,  "tho'  time  was 
whin  I  cud  throw  a  leg  over  wid  th'  best  av  thim. 
Yorke  —  he  gen'rally  rides  th'  black,  Parson,  so  ye'll 
take  th'  sorrel,  Fox,  for  yeh  pathrols.  He's  a  good 


62       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

stayer,  an'  fast.  Ye'll  want  tu  watch  him  at  mountain* 
tho'  —  he's  not  a  mane  harse,  but  he  has  a  quare 
thrick  av  turnin'  sharp  tu  th'  'off'  —  just  as  ye  go  tu 
shwing  up  into  th'  saddle.  Many's  th'  man  he's  whira- 
roo'd  round  wid  wan  fut  in  th'  stirrup  an'  left  pickin' 
up  dollars  off  th'  bald-headed.'  Well!  let's  tu  supper." 

With  the  practised  hand  of  an  old  cook  he  pre- 
pared a  simple  but  hearty  repast,  upon  which  they  fell 
with  appetites  keenly  edged  with  the  cold  air. 

"Are  ye  anythin'  av  a  cuk?" 

Redmond  grinned  deprecatingly  and  then  shook  his 
head. 

"Eyah ! "  grumbled  Slavin,  "seems  I  cannot  hilp  bein' 
cuk  an'  shtandin'  orderly-man  around  here.  I  thried  out 
Yorkey.  .  .  .  Wan  day  on'y  tho'  —  'tis  th'  divil's  own 
cuk  he  is.  'Sarjint!'  sez  he,  'I'm  no  bowatchee' — • 
which  hi  Injia  he  tells  me  means  same  as  cuk.  An'  he 
tould  th'  trute  at  that." 

Some  three  hours  later,  as  they  lay  on  their  cots, 
came  to  them  the  faint,  far-off  toot!  toot!  of  an  engine, 
through  the  keen  atmosphere. 

"That's  Number  Four  from  th'  West,"  remarked 
Slavin  drowsily,  "Yorkey  shud  be  along  on  ut.  Well! 
a  walk  will  not  hurt  th'  man  if  — " 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       63 

He  chuntered  something  to  himself. 

Half  an  hour  elapsed  slowly  —  three  quarters. 
Slavin  rolled  off  his  cot  with  a  grunt  and  strode  heavily 
to  the  front  door,  which  he  opened.  Redmond  silently 
followed  him  and  together  the  two  men  stepped  out  into 
the  crisply-crunching  hard-packed  snow.  It  was  a 
magnificent  night.  High  overhead  in  the  star-studded 
sky  shone  a  splendid  full  moon,  its  clear  cold  rays 
lighting  up  the  white  world  around  them  with  a  sort 
of  phosphorescent,  scintillating  brilliance. 

Though  not  of  a  particularly  sentimental  tempera- 
ment, the  calm,  peaceful,  unearthly  beauty  of  the  scene 
moved  George  to  murmur  —  half  to  himself: 

"Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot,  alas! 
As  benefits  forgot." 

To  his  surprise  came  Slavin's  soft  brogue  echoing  the 
last  lines  of  the  old  Shakespearian  sonnet,  with  a  sort 
of  dreamy,  gentle  bitterness:  "As  binifits  forghot  — 
forghot! — as  binifits  forghot!  ....  Luk  tu  that 
now!  eyah!  'tis  th' trute,  lad!  ....  for  here  —  unless 
I  am  mistuk,  comes  me  bould  Yorkey  —  an'  dhrunk  as 

a  fiddler's again.  Tchkk!  an'  me  on'y  just  afther 

warnin'  um.        ." 


64      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

And,  a  far-away  black  spot  as  yet,  down  the  moonlit, 
snow-banked  trail,  indistinctly  they  beheld  an  unsteady 
figure  slowly  weaving  its  way  towards  the  detachment. 
At  intervals  the  night-wind  wafted  to  them  snatches  of 
song. 

"Singin',  singin',"  muttered  Slavin,  "from  break 

av  morrn  'till  jewy  eve!  .  .  .  Misther  B Yorkel 

luks  'tis  goin'  large  y'are  th'  night." 

Nearer  and  nearer  approached  the  stumbling  black 
figure,  weaving  an  eccentric  course  in  and  out  along 
the  line  of  telephone  poles;  and,  to  their  ears  came  the; 
voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness :  — 

"0,  the  Midnight  Son!  the  Midnight  Son!  (hie) 
You  needn't  go  trottin'  to  Norway  — 
You'll  find  him  in  ev'ry  doorway  — " 

A  sudden  cessation  of  the  music,  coupled  with  certain 
slightly  indistinct,  weird  contortions  of  the  vocalist's 
figure,  apprised  the  watchers  that  a  snow-bank  had 
momentarily  claimed  him.  Then,  suddenly  and  saucily, 
as  if  without  a  break,  the  throbbing,  high-pitched  tenor 
piped  up  again  — 

"You'll  behold  him  in  his  glory 
If  you  on'y  take  a  run  (hie) 
Down  the  Strand  —  that's  the  Land 
Of  the  Midnight  Son." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       65 

Dewy  eve  indeed!  — a  far  cry  to  the  Strand!  .  .  . 
How  freakish  sounded  that  old  London  variety  stage 
ditty  ridiculing  the  nightly  silence  of  the  great  snow- 
bound Nor'  West.  Redmond  could  not  refrain  an  ex- 
plosive, snorting  chuckle  as  he  remarked  the  erratic  gait 
of  the  slowly  approaching  pedestrian.  As  Slavin  had 
opined,  he  was  "going  large."  His  vocal  efforts  had 
ceased  temporarily,  and  now  it  was  the  junior  con- 
stable's merriment  that  broke  the  frosty  stillness  of  the 
night. 

But  Slavin  did  not  laugh.  Watchfully  he  waited 
there  —  curiously  still,  his  head  jutting  forward  lower- 
ingly  from  between  his  huge  shoulders.  \ 

"Tchkk!"  he  clucked  in  gentle  distaste  —  "In  uni- 
form .  .  .  an'  just  afther  comin'  off  the  thrain!  .  .  . 
th'  like  av  that  now  'tis  —  'tis  scandh'lus!  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  Redmond  shivered,  and  his  mirth  died 
within  him.  The  air  seemed  to  have  become  charged 
with  a  tense,  ominous  something  that  filled  him  with  a 
great  dread  —  of  what?  he  knew  not.  He  felt  an  in- 
explicable impulse  to  cry  out  a  warning  to  that  ludi- 
crous figure,  whose  crunching  moccasins  were  now  the 
only  sounds  that  broke  the  uncanny  stillness  of  the 
night.  To  him,  the  whole  scene,  bathed  in  the  cold  bril- 


66      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

liance  of  its  moonlit  setting,  seemed  ghostly  and  unreal 
—  a  disturbing  dream  of  comedy  and  tragedy, 
intermingled. 

Inwards,  between  the  telephone  poles,  the  man  came 
stumbling  along,  gradually  drawing  nigh  to  the  motion- 
less watchers.  Halting  momentarily,  during  his  prog- 
ress he  made  a  quick  stooping  action  at  the  base  of 
one  of  the  poles,  as  if  with  vague  purpose,  which  action 
was  remarked  at  least  by  Redmond. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  seemed  to  become  aware 
of  their  presence,  and  making  a  pitiful  attempt  to  dis- 
semble his  condition  and  assume  a  smart,  erect  military 
carriage  he  waved  his  riding-crop  at  them  by  way  of 
salutation.  Something  in  his  action,  its  graceful,  airy 
mockery,  trivial  though  it  was,  Impressed  the  gesture 
firmly  in  Redmond's  mind.  He  became  cognizant  of 
a  flushed,  undeniably  handsome  face  with  reckless  eyes 
and  mocking  lips;  a  slimly-built  figure  of  a  man  of 
medium  height,  whose  natural  grace  was  barely  con- 
cealed by  the  short  regimental  fur  coat. 

Halting  unsteadily  within  the  regulation  three  paces 
pending  salute,  he  struck  an  attitude  commonly  affected 
by  Mr.  Sothern,  in  "Lord  Dundreary,"  and  jauntily 
twirled  his  crop,  the  while  he  declaimed :  — 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       67 

"Waltz  me  round  again,  Willie,   Willie, 
Round  and  round  and  —  " 

"Round!"  finished  Slavin,  with  a  horrible  oath. 
There  seemed  something  shockingly  aboriginal  — 
simian  —  in  the  swift,  gorilla-like  clutch  of  his  huge 
dangling  hands,  as  they  fastened  on  the  throat  and 
shoulder  of  the  drunken  man  and  whirled  him  on  his 
back  in  the  snow  —  something  deadly  and  menacing 
in  his  hard-breathing,  soft-brogued  invective: 

"Yeh  bloody  nightingale!  come  off  th'  perch!  .  .  . 
I'm  fed  up  wid  yeh!  —  I'll  waltz  yeh!  —  I'll  tache  yeh 
tu  make  a  mock  av  Burke  Slavin,  time  an'  again! 
I'll  — " 

Redmond  interposed,  "Steady,  Sergeant!"  he  im- 
plored shakily,  his  hand  on  his  superior's  shoulder, 
"For  God's  sake  —  " 

But  Slavin,  in  absent  fashion,  shoved  him  off.  He 
seemed  to  put  no  effort  in  the  movement,  but  the  tense 
muscular  impact  of  it  sent  Redmond  reeling  yards 
away. 

"Giddap,  Yorkey!  God  d n  ye  for  a  dhrunken 

waster! — giddap!  or  I'll  put  th'  boots  tu  yeh!" 
Terrible  was  the  menace  of  the  giant  Irishman's  face, 
his  back-flung  boot  and  his  snarling,  curiously  low- 
pitched  voice. 


68       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"No!  no!  Burke,  old  man!  ...  ah,  don't!"  gasped 
the  rich  tenor  voice  pleadingly  from  the  snow  —  "ah, 
don't,  Burke!  .  .  .  remember,  remember  .  .  .  St. 
Agnes'  Eve  — . 

"St.  Agnes'  Eve.    Ah  I  bitter  chill  it  was, 
The  —  " 

It  broke  —  that  throbbing  voice  with  its  strange, 
impassioned  appeal.  Far  away  over  the  snow  the 
famt,  silvery  ring  of  a  locomotive's  gong  fell  upon  the 
ears  of  the  trio  almost  like  the  deep,  solemn  tolling  of 
bells. 

Then  slowly,  and  seemingly  in  pain,  the  prostrate 
man  arose. 

And  yet!  Redmond  mused,  sorry  a  figure  as  he  cut 
just  then,  minus  fur-cap  and  plastered  with  snow, 
alone  with  the  shame  which  was  his,  he  had  an  air,  a. 
certain  dignity  of  mien,  this  man,  Yorke,  which 
stamped  him  far  above  the  common  run  of  men. 

The  junior  constable,  as  he  noted  the  dark  hair, 
silvering  and  worn  away  at  the  temples,  adjudged  him 
to  be  somewhere  between  thirty  and  forty  —  thirty-five 
was  his  exact  age  as  he  ascertained  later. 

Now,  with  the  air  of  a  fallen  angel,  he  stood  there  in 
the  eold,  snow-dazzling  moonlight;  his  face  registering 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       69 

silent  resignation  as  to  whatever  else  might  befall 
him.  The  sergeant  had  stepped  forward.  Redmond 
looked  on,  in  dazed  apprehension.  A  solemn  hush  had 
fallen  upon  the  strange  scene,  and  stranger  trio.  Their 
figures  flung  weird,  fantastic  shadows  across  the 
diamond-sparkling  snow-crust.  George  glanced  at 
Slavin,  and  that  individual's  demeanor  amazed  him  still 
further.  The  big  man's  face  was  transformed.  There 
seemed  something  very  terrible  just  then  in  the  pathetic 
working  of  his  rugged  features,  as  if  he  were  striving  to 
allay  some  powerful  inward  emotion.  Then  huskily, 
but  not  unkindly  —  as  perchance  the  father  may  have 
spoken  to  the  prodigal  son  —  came  his  soft  brogue: 

"Get  yu  tu  bed,  Yorkey!  get  yu  tu  bed,  man!  .  .  . 
an'  thry  me  no  more!  .  .  .  ." 

Mutely,  like  a  child,  Yorke  obeyed  the  order.  Glanc- 
ing at  Redmond  he  turned  and  walked  unsteadily  into 
the  detachment. 

Perturbed  and  utterly  mystified  at  the  sordid  drama 
he  had  witnessed,  its  amazing  combination  of  brutality 
and  pathos,  George  remained  rooted  to  the  spot  as  one 
in  a  dream.  Instinctively  though,  he  felt  that  this  was 
not  the  first  time  of  its  enactment.  Mechanically  he 
watched  the  door  close;  then  sounding  far  off  and  in- 


70      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

distinct,  Slavin's  hoarse  whisper  in  his  ear  brought  him 
down  to  Mother  Earth  again  with  a  vengeance: 

"Did  ye  mark  him  stoop  an'  'plant'  th'  'hootch?' ' 

George  nodded.  "I  wasn't  quite  wise  to  what  he  was 
at,"  he  answered. 

"Let  us  go  get  ut!"  said  Sergeant  Slavin  grimly, 
marching  to  the  spot,  "I  will  not  have  dhrink  brought 
into  th'  detachment!  ...  'tis  against  ordhers." 

He  bent  down,  straightened  up,  and  turning  to  Red^ 
mond  who  had  joined  him  exhibited  a  bottle.  He  held 
it  up  to  the  light  of  the  moon.  It  appeared  to  be  about 
half  empty.  Extracting  the  cork,  he  smelt. 

tf°Tis  whiskey,"  he  murmured  simply  —  much  as 
Mr.  Pickwick  said:  "It  is  punch."  He  made  casual 
examination  of  the  green  and  gold  label.  "  'Burke's 
Oirish,'  begob!  .  .  .  eyah!  a  brave  ould  uniform  but" 
• — he  turned  a  moist  eye  on  his  subordinate  —  "a 
desp'ritly  wounded  souldier  that  wears  ut  —  betther 
out  av  pain.  'Tis  an*  ould  sayin':  'Whin  ye  meet  th' 
divil  du  not  turn  tail  but  take  um  by  th'  harns.'  .  .  . 
Bhoy!  I  thrust  the  honest  face  av  yeh  —  I  have  tuk 
tu  ye  since  th'  handy  lad  ye  showt  yersilf  with  that 
team  mix-up  th'  morn." 

Redmond,  mollified,  grinned  shiveringly.    "I  don't 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       71 

mind  a  snort,  Sergeant,"  he  said,  "it's  d d  cold  out 

here.  Beer's  more  in  my  line  though.  Salue!" 

He  took  a  swallow  or  two;  the  bottle  changed  hands, 

"Eyah!"  remarked  Slavin  sometime  later  — 
cuddling  the  bottle  at  the  "port  arms."  "  'Tis  put  th' 
kibosh  on  many  a  good  man  in  th'  ould  Force  has  this 
same  dhrink.  Th'  likes  av  Yorkey  there"  —  he  jerked 
his  head  at  the  lighted  window  —  "shud  never  touch  ut 
—  never  touch  ut!  ...  Cannot  flirrt  wid  a  bottle  — 
'tis  wedded  they  wud  be  tu  ut.  Now  meself"- — he 
paused  impressively  —  "I  can  take  me  dhrink  like  a 
ginthleman  —  can  take  ut,  or  lave  ut  alone." 

Absorptive  demonstration  followed.  Came  a  long- 
drawn,  smacking  "Ah-hh!"  "A  sore  thrial  tu  me  is 
that  same  man,"  he  resumed,  "wan  more  break  on  his 
part,  as  ye  have  seen  this  night  ...  an'  I  musht  • —  I 
will  take  shteps  wid  urn." 

"Why  don't  you  transfer  him  back  to  the  Post?" 
queried  George,  wonderingly,  mindful  of  how  swiftly 
that  disciplinary  measure  had  rewarded  his  own  reck- 
less conduct  at  the  Gleichen  detachment.  "He's  got 
nothing  on  you,  has  he?" 

"Fwhat?"  .  .  .  Slavin,  turning  like  a  flash,  glared 
sharply  at  him  out  of  deep-set  scowling  eyes,  "Fwhat?" 


72      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Tonelessly,  George  repeated  his  query. 

Slavin's  glare  gradually  faded.  "Eyah!"  he  affirmed 
presently,  "he  has!  .  .  ."  came  a  long  pause  —  "but 
not  as  501  mane  ut  .  .  .oh!  begorrah,  no!"  His  eyes 
glittered  dangerously  and  his  wide  mouth  wreathed 
into  an  unholy  grin,  "  'Tis  a  shmart  man  that  iver  puts 
ut  over  on  me  at  th'  Orderly-room.  .  Fwhy  du  I  not 
sind  him  into  th'  Post?  .  eyah!  fwhy  du  I  not?  ." 

Chin  sunk  on  his  huge  chest,  he  mused  awhile. 
George  waited. 

"Listen,  bhoy!"  A  terrible  earnestness  crept  into 
the  soft  voice.  "I'll  tell  ye  th'  tale.  .  .  .  'Twas  up  at 
th'  Chilkoot  Pass  —  in  the  gold  rush  av  '98.  .  .  .  To- 
gether we  was  —  Yorkey  an'  meself  —  stationed  there 
undher  ould  Bobby  Belcher.  Wan  night  —  Mother  av 
God!  will  I  iver  forghet  ut?  Bitther  cowld  is  th' 
Yukon,  lad;  th'  like  av  ut  yu'  here  in  Alberta  du  not 
know.  Afther  tu  crazy  lost  cheechacos  we  had  been 
that  day.  We  found  thim ' —  frozen.  ...  A  blizzard 
had  shprung  up,  but  we  shtrapped  th'  stiffs  on  th'  sled 
an'  mushed  ut  oursilves  tu  save  th'  dogs. 

"I  am  a  big  man,  an'  shtrong.  .  .  .  but  Yorkey  was 
th'  betther  man  av  us  tu  that  night  —  havin  less  weight 
tu  pack.  I  was  all  hi  —  dhrowsy,  an'  wanted  tu  give 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       73 

up  th'  ghost  an'  shleep  —  an'  shleep.  .  .  .  Nigh  unto 
death  I  was.  .  .  ." 

The  murmuring  voice  died  away.  A  shudder  ran 
through  the  great  frame  at  the  remembrance,  while 
the  hand  clutching  the  bottle  trembled  violently.  Un- 
consciously Redmond  shook  with  him;  for  the  horror 
Slavin  was  living  over  again  just  then  enveloped  his 
listener  also.  .- 

"But  Yorkey,"  he  continued  "wud  not  let  me  lie 
down.  .  .  .  God!  how  that  man  did  put  his  fishts  an* 
mucklucks  tu  me  an'  pushed  an'  shtaggered  wid  me 
afther  th'  dogs,  beggin'  an'  cursin'  an'  prayin'  an'  callin' 
jne  names  that  ud  fairly  make  th'  dead  relations  av  a 
man  rise  up  out  av  their  graves.  .  .  .  Light-headed  he 
got  towards  th'  ind  av  th'  thrail,  poor  chap!  shoutin' 
dhrill-ordhers  an'  Injia  naygur  talk,  an'  singin'  great 
songs  an'  chips  av  poethry  —  th'  half  av  which  I  misre- 
mimber  —  excipt  thim  —  thim  wurrds  he  said  this 
night.  *  "Shaint  Agnus  Eve,"  '  he  calls  ut.  Over  an* 
over  he  kept  repeathin'  thim  as  he  helped  me  shtag- 
gerin'  along.  .  .  'God!'  cries  he,  betune  cursin'  me  an7 
th7  dogs  an'  singin'  'Shaint  Agnus  Eve'  —  'Oh,  help  us 
this  night!  let  us  live,  God!  .  .  .  oh,  let  us  live!  — • 
this  poor  bloody  Oirishman  an'  me!  .  .  .' " 


74      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

The  sergeant's  head  was  thrown  back  now,  gazing 
full  at  the  evening  star  the  moonbeams  shining  upon 
his  upturned,  powerful  face.  Cold  as  was  the  night, 
Redmond  could  see  glistening  beads  of  sweat  on  his 
forehead.  As  one  himself  under  the  spell  of  the  fear  of 
death,  the  younger  man  silently  watched  that  face  - 
fascinated.  It  was  calm  now,  with  a  great  and  kindly 
peace.  Slowly  the  gentle  voice  took  up  the  tale  anew: 

"We  made  ut,  bhoy  —  th'  Post  —  or  nigh  tu  ut  .  .  . 
in  th'  break  av  th'  dawn.  .  .  .  For  wan  av  th'  dogs 
yapped  an'  they  come  out  an'  found  us  in  th'  snow.  .  .  . 
Yorkey,  wid  his  arrums  round  th'  neck  av  me  — -  as  if 
-he  wud  shtill  dhrag  me  on.  ...  an'  cryin'  upon  th' 
mother  that  bore  urn.  .  .  .  Tu  men  —  in  damned  bad 
shape  — *•  tu  shtiffs.  ...  an'  but  three  dogs  lift  out  av 
tk'  six-team  we'd  shtarted  wid.  .  .  .  So— now  ye  know 
lad!  .  .  .  Fwhat  think  ye?  .  .  ." 

What  George  thought  was:  "Greater  love  hath  no 
man  than  this."  What  he  said  was:  "He's  an  English- 
man, isn't  he?" 

"  Slavin  nodded.  "Comes  of  a  mighty  good  family  tu, 
they  say,  but  'tis  little  he  iwer  cracks  on  himself  'bout 
thim.  Years  back  he  hild  a  commission  in  some  cavalry 
reg'mint  in  Injia,  but  he  got  broke  —  over  a  woman, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       75 

I  fancy.  He's  knocked  about  th'  wurrld  quite  a  piece 
since  thin.  Eyah!  he  talks  av  some  quare  parts  he's 
been  in.  Fwhat  doin'?  Lord  knows.  Been  up  an1 
down  the  ladder  some  in  this  outfit  —  sarjint  one  week 
—  full  buck  private  next.  Yeh  know  th'  way  these 
ginthlemin-rankers  run  amuck?" 

"How  does  he  get  away  with  it  every  time?"  queried 
Redmond.  "Hasn't  any  civilian  ever  reported  him  to 
the  old  man?" 

"Yes!  wance  —  an'  'Father/  th'  ould  rapparee!  he 
went  for  me  baldheaded  for  not  reporthin'  ut  tu." 

With  a  sort  of  miserable  heartiness  Slavin  cursed 
awhile  at  the  recollection.  "Toime  an'  again,"  he  re- 
sumed, "have  I  taken  my  hands  tu  um  —  pleaded  wid 
um,  an'  shielded  um  in  many  a  dhirty  scrape,  an'  ivry 
toime  sez  he,  wid  his  ginthlemin's  shmile:  'Burke!  will 
ye  thry  an'  overlook  it,  ould  man?'  .  .  .  Eyah!  he's 
mighty  quare.  For  some  rayson  he  seems  tu  hate  th' 
idea  av  a  third  man  bein'  here,  tho'  th'  man'  wud 
die  for  me.  Divil  a  man  can  I  kape  here,  any- 
way. In  fwhat  fashion  he  puts  th'  wind  up  thim, 
I  do  not  know;  they  will  not  talk,  out  av  pure 
kindness  av  heart  an'  rispict  for  meself,  I  guess. 
But  —  a  few  days  here,  an'  bingo!  — -they  apply  for 


76      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

thransfer.  Now  ye  know  ivrythin',  bhoy  —  fwhat 
I  am  up  against,  an'  fwhy  I  will  not  'can'  Yorkey. 
Ye've  a  face  that  begets  thrust  —  do  not  bethray  ut, 
but  thry  an'  hilp  me.  Bear  wid  Yorke  as  best  ye  can 
j — •  divilmint  an'  all  —  for  my  sake,  will  yeh?" 

Not  devoid  of  a  certain  simple  dignity  was  the  grim, 
rugged  face  that  turned  appealingly  to  the  younger 
man's  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

And  Redmond,  smiling  inscrutably  into  the  deep-set, 
glittering  eyes,  answered  as  simply:  "I  will,  Sergeant!" 
He  declined  an  offer.  "Nemoyah!  (No)  thanks,  I've 
had  enough." 

For  some  unaccountable  reason,  Slavin  smiled  also. 
His  huge  clamping  right  hand  crushed  George's,  while 
the  left  described  an  arc  heavenwards.  Came  a  throaty 
gurgle,  a  careless  swing  of  the  arm,  and  — 

"He  lay  loike  d  warrior  takm'  his  rist, 
Wid  his  — 

"I  misrimimber  th'  tail-ind  av  ut,"  sighed  Sergeant 
Slavin,  "  'Tis  toime  we  turned  in." 

In  silence  they  re-entered  the  detachment.  Yorke, 
minus  his  moccasins,  fur-coat  and  red-serge,  lay 
stretched  out  upon  his  cot  sleeping  heavily,  his  flushed, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       77 

reckless,  high-bred  face  pillowed  on  one  outflung  arm. 
Above  him,  silent  guardians  of  his  rest,  his  grotesque 
mixture  of  prints  gleamed  duskily  in  the  lamp-light. 

Into  Redmond's  mind  —  sunk  into  a  deep  oblivion  of 
dreamy,  chaotic  thought  —  came  again  Slavin's  words: 
"Shtudy  thim  picthures,  bhoy !  an',  by  an*  large  ye  have 
th'  man  himsilf!" 

Soon,  too,  he  slept;  and  into  his  fitful  slumbers 
drifted  a  ridiculously  disturbing  dream.  That  of 
actually  witnessing  the  terrible  scene  of  the  long-dead 
Indian  Mutiny  hero,  Major  Hodson,  executing  with  his 
own  hand  the  three  princes  of  Oude. 

Inshallat  it  was  done  —  there!  there!  against  the 
part,  amidst  the  gorgeous  setting  of  Indian  sunset 
and  gleaming  minaret.  "Been!  Been!  Futteh" 
'Mohammed!"  came  a  dying  scream  upon  the  last  shot 
e-*the  smoking  carbine  was  jerked  back  to  the  "re- 
fcover"  —  a  moment  the  scarlet-turbaned,  scarlet-sashed 
English  officer  gazed  with  ruthless  satisfaction  at  his 
treacherous  victims  then,  turning  sharply,  faced  him. 

And  lo!  to  Redmond  it  seemed  that  the  stern,  in- 
tolerant, recklessly-handsome  countenance  he  looked 
upon  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  face  of  Yorke. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Burn'd  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 
And  — "This  to  me  I"  he  said, —  - 


MARMION 


^ARLY  on  the  morrow  it  came  to  pass  that 
Sergeant  Slavin,  cooking  breakfast  for  all  hands, 
heard  Yorke's  voice  uplifted  in  song,  as  that 

worthy  made  his  leisurely"  toilet.    He  shot  a  slightly.. 

bilious  glance  at  Redmond,  who,  "Morning  Stables" 

finished,  lounged  nearby.  :. .    . 

."•:"•  -          v  .-.-_•    • 

"Hear  urn?"  he  snorted  enviously*    "^ingin'!  singin'! 
—  forever  singin'!  —  eyah!  sich nonsmce,,ftL"- 
But;  to  George,  who  possessed  a  musical  Bar,  the 

ringing  tenor  sounded  rathet  airily- and  sweetly  — 

'         '    '  "•    ,-  -'"..'  .V  -        .'•     \ 

"  "Hark I ^  hark!,  the -lark  at  R.eav.etfs1  Gate  smgs,^  ' 

And  Phoebus 'gins -arise,  ~'\^~' 

*  Bis  st'eeds 'ia  water  at  those  spnngs  — '!   .. 

•  *••  *.? 

"Fwhat   yez   know. "'bput  that?."   .  Slay m    forked-. 

viciously  at  the  bacon  he,  was  frying,    "Blarney. my 
sowl!  an'  him  not  up  for  'Shtables'  at  all!'  .  ._-/'   . 

78 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       79 

"With  ev'rything  that  pretty  is:  — 
My  lady  sweet,  arise!  arise! 
My  lady  sweet,  arise!" 

"My  lady  shweet!"  —  Slavin  snorted  unutterable 
things. 

Yawning,  the  object  of  his  remarks  sauntered  into 
the  kitchen  just  then,  and,  deeming  the  occasion  now 
to  be  a  fitting  one,  the  sergeant  introduced  his  two 
subordinates  to  each  other. " 

Yorke,  with  a  bleak  nod  and  handshake,  swept  the 
junior  constable  with  a  swiftly  appraising  glance.  As 
frigidly  was  his. salutation  returned.  Redmond  re- 
marked the  regular  features,  suggestive  rather  of  the 
ancient  Norman  type,  the  thin,  curved,  defiant  nostrils 
and  dark,  arching  eyebrows.  The  face,  with  its  inde- 
finable stamp  of  birth  and  breeding  was  handsome 
enough  in  its  patrician  mould,  but  marred  some- 
what by  the  lines  of  cynicism,  or  dissipation, 
round  .  the  sombre,  reckless  eyes  ajid  intolerant 
mouth.  He  had  a  cool,  clear  voice  and  a 
whimsical,  devil-may-care  sort  of  manner  that 
was  apparently  natural  to  him,  as  was  also  a  certain 
languid  grace  of  movement.  He  possessed  an  irritating 
mannerism  of  continually  elevating  his  chin  and  dilat- 


8o      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

ing  his  curved  nostrils  disdainfully  in  a  sort  of  sound- 
less sniff.  Beyond  a  slight  flush  he  showed  little  trace 
of  his  previous  night's  dissipation. 

"Where  do  you  hail  from?"  he  enquired  of  George 
with  casual  interest  over  the  mess-table  later. 

"Ontario,"  replied  George  laconically,  "my  people 
are  farmers  down  there." 

For  a  moment  Yorke's  arched  brows  lifted  in  puzzled 
surprise  —  came  a  repetition  of  his  offensive  sniffing 
mannerism;  and  he  stared  pointedly  away  again.  It 
was  difficult  to  be  more  insulting  in  dumb  show. 

George,  mindful  of  his  promise  to  Slavin,  groaned 
inwardly.  "I  am  going  to  hate  this  fellow"  he  thought. 
The  sergeant,  from  the  head  of  the  table,  kept  a  keen 
watch  upon  the  pair. 

"An'  fwhat?"  came  his  soft  brogue,  by  way  of  diver- 
sion, "an'  fwhat  made  yu'  take  on  th'  Force?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  Wearily,  George  shoved  his 
hands  deep  into  his  pockets  and  leant  back  in  his  chair. 
"Old  man's  pretty  well  fixed  —  now.  He's  a  member 

of  the  legislature  for County.  I  was  at  McGill  for 

some  terms  —  medicine."  A  hopeless  note  crept  into 
his  tones.  "I  fell  down  on  my  exams  .  .  .  ran  amuck 
with  the  wrong  bunch  an'  all  that  —  an'  —  an'  .  .  • 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       81 

kind  of  made  a  mess  of  things  I  guess.  .  .  .  Went 
broke  —  came  West.  .  .  .  That's  why.  .  .  ." 

With  a  forlorn  sort  of  forced  grin  he  gazed  back  at 
his  interlocutor.  Yorke,  unheeding  the  conversation, 
continued  his  breakfast  as  if  he  were  alone. 

"H-mm!"  grunted  Slavin,  summing  up  the  situation 
with  native  simplicity,  "That's  ut,  eh?  —  but,  for  all 
ye  have  th'  spache  an'  manners  av  a  ginthleman  — 
ranker  somehow  —  somehow  I  misdoubt  ye're  a  way- 
back  waster  like  Misther  Yorkey  here!" 

That  hardened  "ginthleman,"  absently  sipping  his 
coffee,  flung  a  faintly-derisive,  patient  smile  at  his 
accuser.  A  perfect  understanding  seemed  to  exist  be- 
tween the  two  men.  Redmond,  musing  upon  the 
pathetically-sordid  drama  he  had  witnessed  not  so  many 
hours  since,  relapsed  into  a  reverie  of  speculation. 

The  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  the  sharp  trill 
of  the  telephone.  Slavin  arose  lethargically  from  the 
mess-table  and  answered  it. 

"Hullo!  yis!  Slavin  shpeakin'!  Fwat?  —  all  right 
Nick!  I'll  sind  a  man  shortly  an'  vag  um!  So  long! 
Oh,  hold  on,  Nick!  .  .  .  May  th'  divil  niver  know  ye're 
dead  till  ye're  tu  hours  in  Hivin !  Fwhat?  —  Oh,  thank 
yez!  Same  tuyez!  Well!  .  .  .  so  long!" 


82       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Hobo  worryin'  Nick  Lee  at  Cow  Run.  Scared  av  fire 
in  th'  livery-sh table.  Go  yu',  Yorkey!"  He  eyed  George 
a  moment  in  curious  speculation.  "Yu'  had  betther  go 
along  tu,  Ridmond!  Exercise  yez  harse  an'  "  —  he  lit 
his  pipe  noisily  —  "learn  th'  lay  av  th'  thrails."  He 
turned  to  the  senior  constable.  "If  ye  can  lay  hould  av 
th'  J.P.  there,  get  this  shtiff  committed  an'  let  Ridmond 
take  thrain  wid  um  tu  th'  Post.  Yu'  return  wid  th' 
harses!" 

"Why  can't  Redmond  nip  down  there  on  a  way- 
freight  and  do  the  whole  thing?"  said  Yorke,  a  trifle 
sulkily.  "It  seems  rot  sending  two  men  mounted  for 
one  blooming  hobo." 

"Eyah!"  murmured  Slavin  with  suspicious  mildness, 
"  'tis  th'  long  toime  since  I  have  used  me  shtripes  tu 
give  men  undher  me  wan  ordher  twice." 

Yorke  flashed  a  slightly  apprehensive  glance  at  his 
superior's  face.  Then,  without  another  word,  he 
reached  for  his  side-arms,  bridle,  and  fur-coat.  He 
knew  his  man. 

Redmond  followed  suit  and  they  adjourned  to  the 
stable. 

"I  saw  that  beggar  yesterday  —  on  my  way  up," 
remarked  George,  ill-advisedly. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       83 

Yorke  stared.  "The  hell  you  did!  .  .  .  why  didn't 
you  vag  him  then?"  he  retorted  irritably. 

Bursting  with  silent  wrath  at  the  "choke-off,"  with 
difficulty  Redmond  held  his  peace.  In  silence  they 
saddled  up  and  leading  the  horses  out  prepared  to 
mount.  Yorke  swung  up  on  the  splendid,  mettled  black 
—  "Parson."  He  had  an  ideal  cavalry  seat,  and  as  with 
an  easy  grace  he  gently  controlled  his  impatient  horse, 
with  an  inscrutable,  mask-like  countenance  he  watched 
Redmond  and  the  sorrel  "Fox." 

With  toe  in  the  leather-covered  stirrup  the  latter 
reached  for  the  saddle-horn.  Poor  George!  fuming 
inwardly  over  one  humiliation  caused  him  shortly  to  be 
the  recipient  of  another.  Too  late  to  his  preoccupied 
mind  came  Slavin's  warning  of  the  day  before. 

Like  a  flash  the  sorrel  whirled  to  the  "off-side"  and 
Redmond,  swung  off  his  balance,  revolved  into  space 
and  was  pitched  on  his  hands  and  knees  in  the  snow. 
Fortunately  his  foot  had  slipped  clear  of  the  stirrup. 
In  this  somewhat  ignominious  position  dizzily  he  heard 
Yorke's  mocking  tones: 

"What  are  the  odds  on  Fox,  bookie?  ...  I'd  like 
a  few  of  those  dollars  when  you've  quite  finished 
picking  them  all  up." 


84      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

With  an  almost  superhuman  effort  the  young  fellow 
controlled  himself  once  more  as  he  arose.  Not  lightly 
had  he  given  a  promise.  Silently  he  dusted  the  snow 
from  his  uniform  and  strode  over  to  where  the  sorrel 
awaited  him.  The  horse  had  made  no  attempt  to  run 
away;  apparently  being  an  old  hand  at  the  game.  It 
now  stood  eying  its  dupe,  with  Lord  knows  what  mirth 
tickling  its  equine  brain. 

Slipping  the  "nigh"  rein  through  the  saddle-fork, 
then  back  to  the  cheek-strap  again,  George  snubbed 
Fox's  head  towards  him,  making  it  impossible  for  the 
horse  to  whirl  to  the  "off"  as  before.  Warily  and 
quietly  he  then  swung  into  the  saddle  and  the  two  men 
set  off. 

A  few  yards  from  the  front  of  the  detachment  Yorke 
suddenly  pulled  up  and,  dismounting,  felt  around  in  the 
snow  at  the  base  of  a  well-remembered  telephone-pole. 
It  was  Redmond's  hour  to  jeer  now,  if  he  had  been 
mindful  to  do  so.  But  another  usurped  that  privilege. 

A  queer  choking  sound  made  them  both  turn  round. 
Slavin,  his  grim  face  registering  unholy  mirth,  lounged 
in  the  doorway. 

"Fwhat  ye  lukkin  for,  Yorkey?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  came  that  gentleman's  answer. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       85 

"Ye'll  find  lit  in  th'  bottle  thin." 

Insult  was  added  to  injury  by  the  sergeant  casually 
plucking  that  article  from  it's  "rist"  and  chucking  it 
over. 

Yorke's  face  was  a  study.  "Oh I"  cried  he  dismally, 
"what  wit!  .  .  .  give  three  rousing  cheers!"  ...  He 
mounted  once  more.  "Well !  there's  no  denying  you  are 
one  hell  of  a  sergeant!" 

That  worthy  one  grinned  at  him  tolerantly.  "Get 
yez  gone!"  he  spat  back,  "an*  du  not  linger  tu  play 
craps  on  th'  thrail  either  —  th5  tu  av  yez!" 

Long  and  grimly,  with  his  bald  head  sunk  between 
his  huge  shoulders,  he  gazed  after  the  departing  riders. 
"Eyah!  'tis  best  so!"  he  murmured  softly,  "a  show- 
down—  wid  no  ould  shtiff  av  a  non-com  like  meself 
tu  butt  in.  ...  An*,  onless  I  am  mistuk  that  same  will 
come  this  very  morn,  from  th'  luks  av  things.  .  .  .  Sind 
th'  young  wan  is  as  handy  wid  his  dhooks  as  Brankley 
sez  he  is!  ...  Thin  —  an'  on'y  thin  will  there  be 
peace  in  th'  fam'ly." 

He  re-lit  his  pipe  and,  shading  his  eyes  from  the 
snow-glare  focussed  them  on  two  rapidly  vanishing 
black  specks.  "I  wud  that  I  cud  see  ut!"  he  sighed 
plaintively,  "I  wud  that  I  cud  see  ut!" 


S6      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  sunny  and  clear,  with  the 
temperature  sufficiently  low  to  prevent  the  hard-packed 
snow  from  balling  up  the  horses'  feet.  The  trail  ran 
fairly  level  along  a  lower  shelf  of  the  timber-lined  foot- 
hills, which  on  their  right  hand  sloped  gradually  to  the 
banks  of  the  Bow  River  in  a  series  of  rolling  "downs." 
Sharply  outlined  against  the  blue  ether  the  Sou*  West* 
ern  chain  of  the  mighty  "Rockies"  reared  their  rosily- 
white  peaks  in  all  their  morning  glory  • —  silent 
guardians  of  the  winter  landscape. 

Deep  down  in  his  soul  young  Redmond  harboured 
a  silent,  dreamy  adoration  for  the  beauty  of  such 
scenes  as  this.  Under  different  conditions  he  would 
have  enjoyed  this  ride  immensely.  But  now  —  with 
his  mind  a  seething  bitter  chaos  consequent  upon  his 
companion's  incomprehensible  behavior  towards  him, 
he  rode  in  a  sort  of  brooding  reverie.  Yorke  was 
equally  morose.  Not  a  word  had  fallen  from  their  lips 
since  they  left  the  detachment. 

Right  under  the  horses*  noses  a  big  white  jack- 
rabbit  suddenly  darted  across  the  snow-banked  ruts 
of  the  well-worn  trail,  pursuing  its  leaping  erratic 
course  towards  a  patch  of  brush  on  the  river  side. 
Simultaneously  the  animals  shied,  with  an  inward  trend, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       87 

cannoning  their  respective  riders  together.  Yorke 
reined  away  sharply  and  glared. 

"Get  over!"  he  said  curtly,  "don't  crowd  me!" 

He  spoke  as  a  Cossack  hetman  might  to  his  sotnia, 
and,  at  his  tone  and  attitude,  something  snapped  within 
Redmond.  To  his  already  overflowing  cup  of  resent- 
ment it  was  the  last  straw.  His  promise  to  Slavin  he 
flung  to  the  winds,  and  it  was  replaced  with  vindictive 
but  cool  purpose. 

"Showdown!"  he  muttered  under  his  breath,  "I 
knew  it  had  to  come!"  He  was  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  vast  relief.  Aloud  he  responded,  blithely  and  rudely, 
"Oh!  to  hell  with  you!" 

Yorke  checked  his  horse  with  a  suddenness  that 
brought  the  animal  back  onto  its  haunches.  Sitting 
square  and  motionless  in  the  saddle  for  a  moment  he 
stared  at  George  with  an  expression  almost  of  shocked 
amazement;  then  his  face  became  convulsed  with  ruth- 
less passion. 

The  junior  constable  had  pulled  up  also,  and  now 
wheeling  "half-left"  and  lolling  lazily  in  his  saddle 
with  shortened  leg  stared  back  at  his  enemy  with  an 
expression  there  was  no  mistaking.  His  debonair 
young  face  had  altered  in  an  incredible  fashion.  Al- 


88      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

though  his  lips  were  pursed  up  with  their  whistling  non« 
chalance  his  eyes  had  contracted  beneath  scowling 
brows  into  mere  pin-points  of  steel  and  ice.  He  looked 
about  as  docile  as  a  young  lobo  wolf : —  cornered. 

"Ah!"  murmured  Yorke,  noting  the  transformation; 
and  he  seemed  to  consider.  He  had  seen  that  look  on 
men's  faces  before.  Insensibly,  passion  had  vanished 
from  his  face;  the  bully  had  disappeared;  and  in  his 
place  there  sat  in  saddle  a  cool,  contemptuous  gentle- 
man. 

"Are  you  talking  back  to  me?"  he  said.  He  did  not 
look  astounded  now  —  seemed  rather  to  assume  it. 

Redmond's  scowling  brows  lifted  a  fraction.  "Talk- 
ing back?"  he  echoed,  "sure!  Who  the  devil  do  you 
think  you're  trying  to  come  'the  Tin  Man'  over?" 

Reluctantly  Yorke  discounted  his  first  impressions. 
Here  was  no  self-conscious  bravado.  Warily  he  sur- 
veyed George  for  a  moment  —  the  cool  appraising 
glance  of  the  ring  champion  in  his  corner  scanning  his 
challenger  —  then,  swinging  out  of  the  saddle,  he 
dropped  his  lines  and  began  to  unbuckle  his  spurs. 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  actions.  Redmond 
followed  suit.  A  few  seconds  he  looked  dubiously  at  his 
horse,  then  back  at  Yorke. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       89 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  scared  of  Fox  beating  it,"  re- 
marked that  gentleman  a  trifle  wearily,  "he'll  stand  as 
good  as  old  Parson  if  you  chuck  his  lines  down." 

Shading  his  eyes  from  the  sun-glare  he  took  a  rapid 
survey  of  their  surroundings,  then  led  the  way  to  a 
wind-swept  patch  of  ground,  more  or  less  bare  of  snow. 
Arriving  thither,  as  if  by  mutual  consent  they  flung  off 
caps,  side-arms,  fur-coats  and  stable-jackets.  Yorke, 
a  graceful,  compactly-built  figure  of  a  man,  sized 
up  his  slightly  heavier  opponent  with  an  approving 
eye. 

"You  strip  good"  he  said  carelessly.  "Well!  what's 
it  to  be?  ...  'muck7  or  'muffin'?" 

"'Muffin*  of  course!"  snapped  Redmond  angrily, 
"what  d'ye  take  me  for?  —  a  'rough-house  meal 
ticket'?" 

"All  right!"  said  Yorke  soothingly,  "don't  lose  your 
temper!" 

It  may  have  been  a  shrewdly-calculated  attempt  to 
attain  that  end;  and  yet  again  it  may  have  been  only 
sheer  mechanical  habit  that  prompted  him  to  stretch 
forth  his  hands  in  the  customary  salute  of  the  ring. 

With  an  inarticulate  exclamation  of  rage  the  younger 
man  struck  the  proffered  hands  aside  and  led  with  a 


QO      THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

straight  left  for  the  other's  head.  Yorke  blocked  it 
cleverly  and  fell  into  a  clinch. 

"Ah!"  murmured  Yorke  in  his  antagonist's  ear  with 
a  sinister  smile,  "rotten  manners!  for  just  that,  my 
buck,  I'll  make  you  scoff  'muffin'  'till  you're  quite 
poorly!" 

Working  his  arms  cautiously,  he  sprang  clear  of  the 
clinch,  then,  rushing  his  man  and  feinting  for  the  ribs, 
he  rocked  Redmond's  head  back  with  two  terrific  left 
and  right  hooks  to  the  jaw. 

The  jarring  sting  of  the  punches,  although  dazing 
him  slightly,  brought  Redmond  to  his  senses,  as  he 
realized  how  vulnerable  his  momentary  loss  of 
temper  had  rendered  him.  He  now  braced  him- 
self with  dogged  determination  and,  covering  up 
warily,  circled  his  adversary  with  clever  foot-work. 
Yorke,  tearing  in  again  'was  met  with  one  of 
the  crudest  jabs  he  had  ever  known  —  flush 
in  the  mouth.  Gamely  he  retaliated  with  a  sting- 
ing uppercut  and  a  right  swing  which,  coming  home  on 
Redmond's  cheek-bone,  whirled  him  off  his  balance  and 
sent  him  sprawling. 

Dazed,  but  not  daunted,  he  scrambled  to  his  feet 
Yorke,  blowing  upon  his  knuckles  with  all  the  air  of 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       91 

an  old-time  "Regency  blood,"  waited  with  heaving 
chest  and  scornful,  narrowed  eyes. 

"Want  to  elevate  the  sponge?"  he  queried  sneeringly. 

"No!"  panted  George  grimly,  "it  was  you  started 
the  whole  rotten  dirty  business,  and,  by  gum!  I'll  finish 
itl" 

Dancing  hi  and  out  he  drew  an  ineffective  left  from 
his  opponent  and  countered  with  a  pile-driving  right 
to  the  heart.  Yorke  gave  vent  to  a  groaning  exclama- 
tion and  turned  pale.  He  spat  gaspingly  out  of  his 
mashed  lips  and  propped  Redmond  off  awhile;  then^ 
suddenly  springing  in  again  he  attempted  to  mix  it. 
George  was  nothing  loath,  and  the  two  men,  standing 
toe-to-toe,  slugged  each  other  with  a  perfect  whirlwind 
of  damaging  punches  to  face  and  body. 

Even  hi  the  giddy  whirl  of  combat,  in  either  man's 
heart  now  was  a  wonder  almost  akin  to  respect  for 
each  other's  ring  knowledge  and  gameness.  It  was 
not  George's  first  bout  by  many,  but  the  physical  en- 
durance of  this  hard,  clean-hitting  Corinthian  of  a  man 
was  an  astounding  revelation  to  him;  the  science  of  the 
graceful,  narrow-waisted  figure  was  still  as  quick  and 
as  punishing  as  a  steel  trap. 

Yorke,  for  his  part,  reflected  with  bitter  irony  how 


92       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

utterly  erroneous  had  been  his  primary  calculations  -^ 
how  Nemesis  was  hard  upon  his  heels  at  last  in  the 
guise  of  this  relentless  youngster,  who  fought  like  a 
college-bred  "Charley  Mitchell." 

Ding!  dong!  • — hook,  jab,  uppercut,  block,  and 
swing;  in  and  out,  back  and  forth,  side-stepping  and 
head-work  —  one  long  exhausting  round.  Flesh  and 
blood  could  not  stand  the  pace  —  though  it  was  Red- 
mond now  who  forced  it.  Neither  of  the  men  was  in 
training  and  the  long  strain  began  to  tell  upon  them 
both  cruelly  —  especially  upon  the  veteran  Yorke. 
Still,  with  frosted  hair  and  streaming  faces,  the  sweat* 
soaked,  bruised  and  bleeding  combatants  staggered 
against  each  other  and  strove  to  make  play  with  their 
weary  arms,  until  utter  exhaustion  rang  the  time  gong. 

Gasping  and  swaying  to  and  fro,  his  puffed  lips 
wreathed  into  a  ghastly  semblance  of  his  old  scornful 
smile,  Yorke  dropped  his  guard  and  stuck  out  his  chin. 
He  mouthed  and  pointed  to  it  tauntingly.  In  spite  of 
himself,  a  sorry  grin  flickered  over  George's  battered, 
weary  young  face.  He  mouthed  back  —  speech  was 
beyond  either;  sagging  at  the  knees  he  reeled  forward 
and  his  right  arm  went  poking  out  in  a  wobbling,  un- 
certain punch. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED      93 

It  glanced  harmlessly  over  Yorke's  shoulder,  but  the 
violent  impact  of  his  body  sent  the  other  heavily  to 
the  ground.  An  ineffectual  struggle  to  maintain  his 
equilibrium  and  he,  too,  fell  —  face  downwards,  with 
his  head  pillowed  on  Yorke's  heaving  chest. 


We're  poor  little  lambs  who've  lost  our  wayt 

Baa!  Baa!  Baa! 
We're  little  black  sheep  who've  gone  astray, 

Baa  —  aa  —  oat 

'Gentlemen-rankers  out  on  the  spree, 
Damned  from  here  to  Eternity, 
God  ha'  mercy  on  such  as  we, 

Baa!  Yah!  Bah  I 

KIPLING 

A  GREAT  peace  lay  upon  the  frozen  landscape  — • 
the  deep,  wintry  peace  of  the  vast,  snow-bound 
Nor'West.    A  light  breeze  murmured  over  the 
crisping  snow,  and  moaned  amongst  the  pines  in  the 
timber-lined  spurs  of  the  foothills.  High  overhead  in 
the  sunny,  dazzling  blue  vault  of  heaven  a  huge  solitary 
hawk  slowly  circled  with  wide-spread,  motionless  wings, 
uttering  intermittently  its  querulous,  eerie  whistle. 

Awhile  the  two  exhausted  men  lay  gasping  for  breath 
—  absolutely  and  utterly  spent.  Suddenly  Yorke 
shivered  violently  and  sighed.  Redmond  raised  him- 
self off  the  prostrate  form  of  his  late  opponent  and, 
staggering  over  to  the  pile  of  their  discarded  habili- 

94 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED      95 

ments,  slowly  and  painfully  he  donned  his  fur  coat 
and  cap;  then,  picking  up  Yorke's,  he  stumbled  over  to 
the  latter.  The  senior  constable  was  now  sitting  up, 
with  arms  drooping  loosely  over  his  knees.  George 
wrapped  the  coat  around  the  bowed  shoulders  and  put 
on  the  cap. 

"You're  cold,  old  man ! "  he  said  simply.  "We'd  best 
get  our  things  on  now,  and  beat  it." 

Wearily  Yorke  raised  his  head,  and,  at  something  he 
beheld  in  that  disfigured,  but  unalterably-handsome 
face,  Redmond's  heart  smote  him. 

Often  in  the  past  he  had  fondly  imagined  himself 
nursing  implacable,  absolutely  undying  hatreds;  brood- 
ing darkly  over  injuries  received  in  fancy  or  reality, 
planning  dire  and  utterly  ruthless  revenge,  etc.  But, 
deep,  deep  down  in  his  boyish  soul  he  knew  it  to  be  only 
a  dismal  failure  —  that  he  could  not  keep  it  up.  His 
was  an  impulsive,  generous  young  heart  —  equally 
quick  to  forgive  an  injury  as  to  resent  one.  Now  in 
his  pity  and  misery  he  could  have  cried  —  to  see  his 
erstwhile  enemy  so  hopelessly  broken  in  body  and 
spirit. 

Therefore  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  it  was  sheer 
sentimental  absurdity  on  his  part  now  to  drop  on  one 


96       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

knee  and  put  his  arms  around  that  shivering,  pride- 
broken  form. 

"Yorkey!"  he  mumbled  huskily,  "old  man!  .  .  . 
Yor  —  " 

He  choked  a  bit,  and  was  silent. 

Waveringly,  a  skinned-knuckled,  but  sinewy,  shapely 
hand  crept  out  and  gently  ruffled  Redmond's  curly 
auburn  hair.  Vaguely  he  heard  a  voice  speaking  to 
him.  Could  that  tired,  kind,  whimsical  voice  belong 
to  Yorke?  It  said:  "Reddy,  my  old  son!  .  .  .  we're 
still  in  the  ring,  anyway.  .  .  .  Seems  —  dp  what  we 
would  or  could  —  we  couldn't  poke  each  other 
out.  .  .  ." 

Came  a  long  silence;  then:  "If  ever  a  man  was  sorry 
for  the  rotten  way  he's  acted,  it's  surely  me  right 

now.  ...  Got  d d  good  cause  to  be  p'raps.  ...  I 

handed  it  to  you  about  the  sponge  .  .  .  egad!  I  well- 
nigh  came  chucking  it  up  myself  —  later.  My  colonial 
oath!  but  you're  the  cleverest,  gamest,  hardest-hitting 
young  proposition  I've  ever  ruffled  it  out  with!  .  .  . 
Where'd  you  pick  it  up?  Who's  han'dled  you?" 

George  slpwly  rose  to  his  feet.  "Man  named  Scholes 
—  down  East"  he  answered.  He  eyed  Yorke's  face 
ruefully  and,  incidentally  felt  his  own,  "I  used  to  do 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       97 

JL  bit  with  the  gloves  when  I  was  at  McGill.  Talking 
about  sponges!  — I  only  wish  we  had  one  now  to 
chuck  up  —  in  tangible  form." 

He  abstracted  the  other's  handkerchief  and,  rolling 
it  with  his  own  into  a  pad  dabbed  it  in  the  snow.  Yorke 
winced.  "Hold  still,  old  thing!"  said  Redmond,  "we'll 
have  to  clean  off  a  bit  ere  we  hit  the  giddy  trail  again." 

For  some  minutes  he  gently  manipulated  the  pad. 
"There!  you  don't  look  too  bad  now.  Have  a  go  at  me!" 

Figuratively,  they  licked  each  other's  wounds  awhile. 
Yorke  had  grown  very  silent.  Chin  in  hands  and  rock- 
ing very  slightly  to  and  fro,  all  huddled  up  in  his  fur 
coat,  he  gazed  unseeingly  into  the  beyond.  His  face 
was  clouded  with  such  hopeless,  bitter,  brooding  misery 
that  it  worried  Redmond.  He  guessed  it  to  be  some- 
thing far  deeper  than  the  memory  of  their  recent  con- 
flict. He  strove  to  arouse  the  other. 

"Talk  about  game  cocks!"  he  began  lightly.  "Ten 
years  ago,  say!  you  must  have  been  a  corker  —  regular 
'Terry  McGovern'." 

"Eh?"  Yorke's  far-away  eyes  stared  at  him  vaguely. 
"I  was  in  India  then.  Army  light-weight  champion  in 
my  day.  Slavin  wasn't  joshing  much  at  breakfast,  by 
gum!  »  .  ,  Now  we're  here!  .  .  .  We're  a  bright 


98       THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

pair ! "    He  made  as  though  to  cast  snow  upon  his  head, 
"Ichabod!  Ichabod!  our  glory  has  departed!" 

He  lifted  up  his  tenor  voice,  chanting  the  while  he 
rocked  — 

"Gentlemen-rankers   out    on    the   spree, 
Damned  from  here  to  Eternity, 
God  ha'  mercy  on  such  as  we, 
Baa!  Yah!  Bah!" 

Redmond  flinched  and  raised  a  weakly  protesting 
hand.  "Don't,  old  man!"  he  implored  miserably, 
"don't!  what's  the  — " 

"Eh ! "  queried  Yorke  brutally  —  rocking  —  "does  it 
hurt?" 

"//  the  home  we  never  write  to,  and  the  oaths  we 

never  keep, 
And  all  we  —  " 

"No!  no!  no!  Yorkey!"  George's  voice  rose  to  a 
cry,  "not  that!  .  .  .  quit  it,  old  man!  .  .  .  that's  one 
of  the  most  terrible  things  Kipling  ever  wrote  — 
terrible  because  it's  so  absolutely,  utterly  hope- 
less. .  .  ." 

"Well,  then!"  said  Yorke  slowly  - 

"Can  you  blame  us  if  we  soak  ourselves  in  beer?" 

"It  wasn't  beer,"  muttered  Redmond  absently,  "it 
was  whiskey.  Slavin  and  I  drank  it."  With  an  effort 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED       99 

he  strove  to  arouse  himself  out  of  the  despondency 
that  he  himself  had  fallen  into. 

"Listen!  ...  Oh!  quit  that  d d  rocking, 

Yorkey!  .  .  .  Listen  now!  we've  put  up  a  mighty 
good  scrap  against  each  other  —  we'll  call  that 
a  draw  —  let's  put  up  another  against  our — • 

well!  we'll  call  it  our  rotten  luck  .  .  .  D n 

it  all,  old  man,  we're  not  'down  an'  outs' 
doing  duty  in  this  outfit  —  the  best  military  police 
corps  in  the  world !  .  .  .  Let's  both  of  us  quit  squalling 
this  eternal  'nobody  loves  me'  stuff!  This  isn't  any 
slobbery  brotherly  love  or  New  Jerusalem  business,  or 
anything  like  that,  either.  I'm  not  a  bloomin'  mission- 
ary!" He  qualified  that  assertion  unnecessarily  to 
prove  it.  "But  let's  stick  together  and  back  each 
other  up  —  just  us  two  and  old  man  Slavin  —  make  it 
a  sort  of  'rule  of  three.'  We  can  have  a  deuce  of  a 
good  time  on  this  detachment  then!  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  hotly,  eagerly,  with  boyish  fervour,  his 
soul  in  his  eyes. 

Yorke  remained  silent,  with  averted  eyes.  That  im- 
ploring, wistful,  bruised  young  countenance  was  al- 
most more  than  he  could  stand.  George,  dropping  on 
one  knee  beside  him  put  a  tremulous  hand  on  the 


ioo  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED" 

senior  constable's  shoulder.  "What's  wrong,  Yorkey?" 
he  queried.  He  shook  the  bowed  shoulder  gently. 
"What's  made  you  consistently  knock  every  third  buck 
that's  been  sent  here?  'till  they  got  fed  up,  and  trans- 
ferred? .  .  .  They  tried  to  put  the  wind  up  me  about 
it  at  the  Post.  What's  bitin'  you?  J  don't  seem  to  get 
your  angle  at  all!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  yorke  coughed  and  spat 
drearily.  "Kind  of  rum  reason,  you'll  think.  Long 
story  —  too  long- — dates  back.  Listen  then  I  Ten 
years  back,  in  the  pride  of  my  giddy  youth,  I  held  a 

Junior  Sub's  commission  in  the  Lancers- — in 

India.  This  is  just  a  synopsis  of  my  case,  mind!  •.  .  . 
Well!  the  regiment  was  lying  at  Rawal  Pindi,  and  —  I 
guess  I  kind  of  ran  amuck  there  —  got  myself  into  a 
rotten  esclandre  • —  entirely  my  own  fault  I'll  admit: 

Man  is  fire,  and  Woman  is  tow, 

And  the  Devil,  he  comes  and  begins  to  blow  — 

the  same  old  miserable  business  the  world's  fed  up  witK 
Since  then  seems  I've  kind  of  made  a  mess  of  things. 
Burke  Slavin's  about  right  —  his  estimate  of  me." 
He  sighed  with  bitter,  gloomy  retrospection.  "I've 
always  had  a  queer,  intolerant  sort  of  temperament. 
If  I'd  lived  in  the  days  of  the  Indian  Mutiny  I  guess 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     101 

I'd  have  been  in  'Hodson's  Horse'."  (Redmond  started, 
remembering  his  curious  dream.)  "He  was  a  man  after 
my  own  heart,"  Yorke  continued  slowly,  "resourceful, 
slashing  sort  of  beggar  ...  he  ruffled  it  with  a  high 
hand.  Bold  and  game  as  Sherman,  or  Paul  Jones,  but  as 
ruthless  as  Graham  of  Claverhouse.  He  put  the  ever- 
lasting fear  into  the  rebels  of  Oude  —  something  like 
Cromwell  did  in  Ireland.  My  old  Governor  served 
through  the  Mutiny  • —  he's  told  me  stories  of  him.  My 
God!" 

He  drew  his  fur  coat  closer  round  him.  "Well!"—- 
Redmond  watched  the  sombre  profile  —  "as  I  was  say- 
ing ...  I  'muckered'.  .  ,  .  Since  then,  with  the  years, 
I  guess  I've  been  climbing  down  the  ladder  of  illusions 
till  I'm  right  in  the  stoke-hole,  and  Old  Nick  seems  to 
grin  and  whisper:  'As  you  were!  my  cashiered  Sub. — 
As  you  were!'  every  time  I  chuck  a  brace  and  try  to 
climb  up  again.  How's  that  for  a  bit  of  cheap 
cynicism?"  —  the  low,  bitter  laugh  was  not  good  to 
hear  —  "Man!"  —  the  brooding  eyes  narrowed  — 
"I've  sure  plumbed  the  depths  —  knocking  around, 
with  the  right  to  live.  Port  Said,  Buenos  Aires,  Shang- 
hai. .  .  .  I've  certainly  travelled.  Some  day  I'll  throw 
the  book  at  you.  Now  —  substance  and  ambition  gone 


102  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

by  the  board  long  ago,  and  mighty  little  left  of  prin'- 
ciple  I  guess  —  I  am  —  what  I  am  —  everything  except 
a  prodigal,  or  a  remittance-man  —  I  never  worried 
them  at  Home  —  that  way.  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  reckless  earnestness  that 
moved  his  hearer  more  than  that  individual  cared  to 
show.  Redmond  felt  it  was  useless  to  offer  mere  con- 
ventional sympathy  in  a  case  like  this.  He  did  the 
next  best  thing  possible  —  he  remained  silently  atten- 
tive and  let  the  other  run  on. 

"You  take  three  men  now  —  stationed  in  the  same 
detachment,"  resumed  Yorke  wearily,  "by  gum!  they're 
thrown  together  mighty  close  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it.  It's  different  to  the  Post,  where  there's  a  crowd. 
Life's  too  short  to  start  in  explaining  minutely  just 
what  that  difference  is.  Fact  remains!  ...  to  get 
along  and  pull  together  they've  got  to  like  each  other 
—  have  something  in  common  —  give  and  take. 
Otherwise  the  situation  becomes  d— — d  trying,  and 
trouble  soon  starts  in  the  family." 

"By  what  divine  right  I  should  consider  myself 
qualified  to  —  to  —  Oh!  shut  up,  you  young  idiot! 
.  .  ."  Redmond,  forehead  pressed  into  the  speaker's 
shoulder,  giggled  hysterically  in  spite  of  himself  — 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     103 

"Shut  up!  d'you  hear?  or  I'll  knock  your  silly  block 
off!" 

The  two  bodies  shook  with  their  convulsive  mer- 
riment. "You  can't  do  it!  old  thing,"  came  George's 
smothered  rejoinder,  "and  you  know  darned  well  you 
can't  —  now!  ...  Go  on,  you  bloomin'  Hodson! — • 
proceed ! " 

Yorke  gave  vent  to  a  good-natured  oath.  "Hodson? 
.  .  .  you  do  me  proud,  my  buck!  .  .  .  Well  now!  — ; 
this  'three  men  in  a  boat7  business!  .  .  .  I'll  admit 
I  'rocked'  it  with  Crampton.  I  virtually  abolished 
him  because  —  oh!  I  couldn't  stick  the  beggar  at  all. 
I  simply  couldn't  make  a  pal  of  him.  He  was  fairly 
good  at  police  work,  but  a  proper  cad,  in  my  opinion. 
Always  swanking  about  the  palatial  residence  he'd  left 
behind  in  the  Old  Country.  He  called  it '  'is  'ome'  at 
that.  Typical  specimen  of  the  middle-class  snob. 
Followed  Taylor.  Thick-headed,  serious-minded  sort 
of  fool.  Had  great  veneration  for  'his  juty.'  No  real 
knowledge  of  the  Criminal  Code,  and  minus  common 
sense,  yet  begad!  the  silly  beggar  tried  to  be  more 
regimental  that  the  blooming  Force  is  itself.  I  sys- 
tematically put  the  wind  up  to  him  'till  he  got  cold  feet 
and  quit." 


104  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Redmond  recalled  the  fact  that  Taylor  had  been  his 
predecessor.  "Followed!"  he  echoed  mockingly,  look- 
ing up  at  his  handiwork. 

Yorke,  with  a  twisted  smile  glanced  down  at  the 
bruised,  but  debonair  young  face.  Benevolently  he 
punched  its  owner  in  the  back.  "Followed  ...  a  cer- 
tain young  fellow,  yclept  'Nemesis',"  he  said,  "I  sized 
you  up  for  one  of  these  smart  Alecks  —  first  crack  out 
of  the  box,  and  egad!  I  think  I'm  about  right." 

Said  Redmond,  "How  about  our  respected  sergeant? 
we  seem  to  have  forgotten  him." 

"Slavin?"  ejaculated  the  senior  constable;  and  was 
silent  awhile.  There  was  no  levity  in  him  now.  Slowly 
he  resumed,  "I  guess  as  much  as  it's  humanly  possible 
for  two  men  to  know  each  other  —  down  to  the  bed- 
rock, it's  surely  Burke  Slavin  and  I.  Should  too,  the 
years  we've  been  together.  The  good  old  beggar!  .  .  . 
We  slang  each  other,  and  all  that  .  .  .  but  there's  too 
much  between  us  ever  to  resent  anything  for  long." 

"I  know,"  said  Redmond  simply,  "he  told  me  himself 
—  last  night." 

"Eh?"  queried  Yorke  sharply.  "My  God!  .  .  . 
Tchkk!"  he  clucked,  and  burying  his  hands  in  his  face 
he  gave  vent  to  a  fretful  oath.  "My  God! "  he  repeated 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     105 

miserably,  "I'd  forgotten  —  last  night!  *  ,  .  I  sure 
must  have  been  'lit'  ,  .  *  to  come  that  over  old 
Burke.  .  .  J" 

"You  sure  were!"  remarked  Redmond  brutally. 
"Keats'  'St.  Agnes'  Eve'!  ...  Oh,  Lord!"  ...  He 
drew  in  his  breath  with  a  sibilant  hiss,  "There  seems 
something  —  something  devilish  about  —  " 

"I  know!  I  know!"  breathed  Yorke  tensely,  "what 
*  %  .  you  mean."  His  haggard  eyes  implored  Red- 
mond's. "No!  no!  never  again  ...  I  swear  it.  .  „  ." 

There  came  a  long,  painful  silence.  "See  here; 
look!"  began  Yorke  suddenly.  He  stopped  and  sur- 
veyed George  a  trifle  anxiously.  "Mind!  ...I'm  not 
trying  to  justify  myself  but  —  get  me  right  about  this 
now.  Don't  you  ever  start  in  making  a  mistake  about 
Slavin  —  blarney  and  all.  No,  Sir!  I  tell  you  when 
old  Burke  runs  amok  in  those  tantrums  he's  a  holy 
fright.  He'd  kill  a  man.  Might  as  well  run  up  against 
a  gorilla." 

A  vision  of  the  huge,  sinister,  crouching  figure 
seemed  to  rise  up  in  Redmond's  mind  —  the  great, 
clutching,  simian  hands. 

"In  India,"  continued  Yorke,  "we'd  say  he'd  got  a 
touch  of  the  'Dulalli  Tap.'  The  man  doesn't  know  his 


106  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

own  strength.  I  was  taking  an  awful  chance  —  getting 
his  goat  like  that  last  night.  It's  a  wonder  he  didn't 
kill  me.  He's  man-handled  me  pretty  badly  at  times. 
Oh,  well!  I  guess  it's  been  coming  to  me  all  right. 
Neither  of  us  has  ever  dreamt  of  going  squalling  to  the 
Orderly-room  over  our  .  .  .  differences.  I  don't  think 
Burke's  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  'peg'  a  man  in  his 
life.  Not  his  way.  'I  must  take  shteps ! '  says  he,  and 
'I  will  take  shteps! '  and  when  he  starts  in  softly  rubbing 
those  awful  great  grub-hooks  he  calls  hands  —  to- 
gether! .  .  .  well!  you  want  to  look  out." 

Lighting  a  cigarette  he  resumed  reminiscently: 
"They  were  a  tough  crowd  to  handle  up  in  the  Yukon. 
The  devil  himself  'd  have  been  scared  to  butt  in  to  that 
'Soapy  Smith'  gang;  but,  by  gum!  they  were  afraid  of 
Slavin.  He  doesn't  drink  much  now,  but  he  did  then 
—  mighty  few  that  didn't  —  up  there  —  and  I  tell  you, 
even  our  own  fellows  got  a  bit  leery  of  him  when  he 
used  to  start  in  'trailing  his  coat.'  They  were  glad 
when  he  'came  outside.'  That's  one  of  the  reasons 
why  he's  shoved  out  on  a  prairie  detachment.  He 
wouldn't  do  at  all  for  the  Post.  He  never  reports  in 
there  more  than  he  has  to  —  dead  scared  of  the  old 
man,  who's  about  the  only  soul  he  is  afraid  of  on  earth. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     107 

The  O.C.'s  awful  sarcastic  with  him  at  times,  and  that 
get's  Burke's  goat  properly.  He  sure  does  hate  getting 
a  choke-off  from  the  old  man." 

He  grinned  guiltily.  "That's  why  he  prefers  to 
wash  the  family  linen  strictly  at  home  —  what  little 
there  is.  But,  sarcasm  and  all,  the  O.C.  gives  him 
credit  for  being  onto  his  job  —  and  it's  coming  to  him, 
too.  He's  quick  acting  and  he's  got  the  Criminal  Code 
well-nigh  by  heart.  Regular  blood-hound  when  he 
starts  in  working  up  a  case." 

He  yawned,  and  rising  stiffly  to  his  feet  stretched 
his  cramped  limbs.  "We-11!  Reddy,  my  giddy  young 
hopeful!  — Now  we've  fallen  on  each  other's  ruddy 
necks  and  kissed  and  wept  and  had  a  heart-to-heart 
talk  we'll  —  " 

"Aw,  quit  making  game,  Yorkey!  Is  it  a  go?  You 
know  what  I  said?" 

Strangely  compelling,  Yorke  found  that  bruised, 
eager,  wistful  young  face,  with  its  earnest,  honest  eyes. 
"All  right!"  he  agreed,  with  languid  bonhomie. 
"You've  certainly  earned  the  office  of  Dictator,  and,  as 
I  remarked  —  we  really  have  quite  a  lot  in  common. 
Mind,  though,  you  don't  repent  of  your  bargain.  One 
thing!"  the  curved,  defiant  nostrils  dilated  faintly, 


io8  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Seems  the  world  always  has  use  for  us  runagates  in 
one  capacity.  It's  just  the  likes  of  us  that  compose  the 
rank  and  file  of  most  of  the  Empire's  military  police 
forces.  Who  makes  the  best  M.P.  man,  executing  duty, 
say,  in  a  critical  life-and-death  hazard?  The  cautious, 
upright,  model  young  man,  with  a  tender  regard  for 
a  whole  skin  and  a  Glorious  Future?  Or  the  poor 

devil  who's  lost  all,  and  doesn't  care  a  d n?    We 

tackle  the  world's  dangerous,  dirty  criminal  work  and 
i —  swank  and  all  —  Society  don't  want  to  forget  it" 

He  pointed  to  their  horses  who  were  playfully  rear- 
ing and  biting  at  each  other  in  equine  sport.  "Look  at 
old  Parson  and  Fox  tryin'  to  warm  themselves? 
Bloomin'  fine  example  we've  set  yem.  Well!  allons!, 
mon  camarade,  let's  up  and  beat  it." 


CHAPTER  V 

A  deed  accursed!    Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore; 
But  this  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands  darkly  out. 

THOMAS  TAYLOR 

HASTILY  dressing,  the  two  policemen  mounted 
and  took  the  trail  once  more.  Side  by  side 
as  they  rode  along,  in  each  man's  heart  was 
an  estimate  of  the  other  vastly  different  from  that 
with  which  they  started  out  that  memorable  morning. 

Yorke,  his  spirits  now  fully  recovered,  became  quite 
companionably  communicative,  relating  picturesque, 
racy  stories  of  India,  the  Yukon,  and  other  countries 
he  had  known.  George,  in  receptive  mood,  listened 
in  silent  appreciation  to  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
raconteurs  he  had  ever  met  in  his  young  life.  Inci- 
dentally he  felt  relieved  as  he  noted  his  comrade  now 
tactfully  avoiding  morbid  egotism  —  dwelling  but 
lightly  upon  the  milestones  that  marked  his  chequered 
career. 

The  bodily  stiffness  and  soreness,  consequent  upon 

IOQ 


no     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

their  recent  bout,  was  now  well-nigh  forgotten,  though 
occasionally  they  laughingly  rallied  each  other  as  the 
sharp  air  stung  their  bruised  faces.  They  were  just 
surmounting  the  summit  of  a  long,  steep  grade  in  the 
trail. 

Said  Redmond  dubiously:  "See  here;  look!  I'm 
darned  if  I  like  getting  the  freedom  of  the  City  of 
Cow  Run  sportin'  such  a  pretty  mug  as  this!  How 
many  more  miles  to  this  giddy  burg,  old  thing?" 

Yorke  grinned  unfeelingly.  "Hard  on  nine  miles  to 
go  yet.  We're  about  half  way.  Isch  ga  bibble!  .  .  . 
open  your  ditty-box  and  sing!  you  blooming  whip- 
poor-will." 

"A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  way, 

But  a  sad  one  tires  in  a  mile  a'; 
^ » 

The  old  lilt  died  on  his  lips.  With  a  startled  oath 
he  reined  in  sharply  and,  shielding  his  eyes  from  the 
sun-glare,  remained  staring  straight  in  front  of  him. 
They  had  just  topped  the  crest  of  the  rise.  The  east- 
ward slope  showed  a  low-lying,  undulating  stretch  of 
snow-bound  country,  sparsely  dotted  with  clumps  of 
poplar  and  alder  growth,  through  which  the  trail 
wound  snake-like  into  the  fainter  distance.  South- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     in 

wards,  below  the  rolling,  shelving  benches,  lay  the 
river,  a  steaming  black  line,  twisting  interminably  be- 
tween frosty,  bush-fringed  banks. 

No  less  startled  than  his  companion,  Redmond 
pulled  up  also  and  stared  with  him.  Not  far  distant 
on  the  trail  ahead  of  them  they  beheld  a  dark, 
ominous-looking  mass,  vividly  conspicuous  against  the 
snow.  Suddenly  the  object  moved  and  resolved  it- 
self unmistakably  into  a  horse  struggling  to  rise.  For 
an  instant  they  saw  the  head  and  the  fore-part  of 
the  body  lift,  and  then  flop  prone  again.  Close 
against  it  lay  another  dark  object. 

"Horse  down!"  snapped  Yorke  tersely.  "Hell!"  he 
added,  "looks  like  a  man  there,  too!  come  on 
quick!" 

Responding  to  a  shake  of  the  lines  and  a  fierce 
thrust  of  the  spurs,  their  horses  leapt  forward  and 
they  raced  towards  their  objective. 

"Steady!  steady!"  hissed  Yorke,  checking  his 
mount  as  they  drew  near  the  fallen  animal  and  its 
rider,  "pull  Fox  a  bit,  Red!  Mustn't  scare  the  horse! " 

Slackening  into  a  walk,  they  flung  out  of  saddle, 
dropped  their  lines,  crouched,  and  crept  warily  for- 
ward. The  horse,  a  big,  splendid  seal-brown  animal, 


ii2  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

had  fallen  on  its  right  side,  with  its  off  fore-leg 
plunged  deep  in  a  snow-filled  badger-hole.  The  body 
of  the  man  lay  also  on  the  off-side  with  one  leg  under 
his  mount.  The  stiffened  form  was  a  ghastly  object 
to  behold,  being  literally  encased  in  an  armour-like 
shell  of  frozen,  claret-coloured  snow. 

At  the  approach  of  the  would-be  rescuers  the  poor 
brute  whinnied  pitifully  and  made  another  ineffec- 
tual attempt  to  rise.  Yorke  flung  himself  onto  the 
head  and  held  it  down,  while  George  dived  frantically 
for  the  man's  body,  and  tugged  until  he  had  got  the 
leg  from  under. 

"Hung  up!  by  God!"  gasped  the  former,  "his  foot's 
well-nigh  through  the  stirrup!" 

Redmond,  ex-medical  student,  made  swift  examina- 
tion. "Dead!"  he  pronounced  with  finality,  "Good 
God!'  dead  as  a  herring!  The  man's  been  dragged 
and  kicked  to  death!"  He  made  a  futile  effort  to 
release  the  imprisoned  foot. 

"No!  no!"  cried  Yorke  sharply,  "no  use  doing  that 
if  he's  dead.  Coroner's  got  to  view  things  as  they 
are." 

The  horse  began  to  struggle  again  painfully.  Peer- 
ing down  the  badger-hole  they  could  see  the  broken 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     113 

bone  of  its  leg  protruding  bloodily  through  the  skin, 
Yorke  released  one  hand  and  reached  for  his  gun. 

"Poor  old  chap!"  he  said,  "we'll  fix  you.  Quick 
Red!  pull  the  body  as  far  back  as  the  stirrup-lega- 
.deiro'll  go!  That'll  do!  There,  old  boy!  .  .  ." 

And  with  practised  hand  he  sent  a  merciful  bullet 
crashing  through  brain  and  spinal  cord.  The  hind 
legs  threshed  awhile,  but  presently,  with  a  muscular 
quiver  they  stiffened  and  all  was  still.  Yorke,  re- 
leasing his  hold  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  the  two 
men  stared  pityingly  at  what  lay  before  them.  What 
those  merciless,  steel-shod  hoofs  had  left  of  the  head 
and  the  youthful  body  indicated  a  man  somewhere 
in  his  twenties.  His  ice-bound  outer  clothing  con- 
sisted of  black  Angora  goatskin  chaps  and  a  short 
sheepskin  coat. 

"Can't  place  him  —  like  this,"  muttered  Yorke,  after 
prolonged  scrutiny,  "but  I  seem  to  know  the  horse." 

Suddenly  he  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation  —  some- 
thing between  a  groan  and  a  cry.  Redmond,  startled 
at  a  new  horror  apparent  on  the  other's  ghastly  face, 
clutched  him  by  the  arm. 

"What's  up?"  he  queried  tensely. 

Yorke  struggled  to  speak.    "Fox!"  he  gasped  pres- 


ii4  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

ently  —  "this  morning.  ...  I  never  told  you.  My 
God!  — You  might  have  got  hung  up  like  this,  too." 

"No!  no!  Yorkey!"  Redmond  almost  shouted  the 
disclaimer,  "Slavin  wised  me  up  to  that  trick  of  his 
yesterday,  I  forgot.  It  was  my  own  fault  I  got 
piled  like  that.  Forget  it,  old  man!  I  say  forget  it!" 

He  shook  the  other's  arm  with  a  sort  of  savage 
gentleness. 

A  look  of  vague  relief  dawned  on  Yorke's  haggard 
face.  "Ay,  so ! "  he  murmured,  and  paused  with  brood- 
ing indecision.  "That's  absolved  my  conscience  some, 
but  not  altogether." 

They  remained  silent  awhile  after  this.  Presently 
Yorke  pulled  himself  together  and  spoke  briskly  and 
decisively.  "Well,  now!  we'll  have  to  get  busy. 
Blair's  place  is  only  about  three  miles  from  here  — 
nor'east  —  they're  on  the  long-distance  'phone.  Doc- 
tor Cox  of  Cow  Run's  the  coroner  for  this  district. 
If  I  can  get  hold  of  him  I'll  get  him  to  come  out 
right-away  —  and  I'll  notify  Slavin." 

Catching  up  his  horse  he  swung  into  the  saddle. 
"I'll  be  back  here  on  the  jump.  You  stick  around, 
and  say,  Reddy,  you  might  as  well  have  a  dekko  at 
the  lay  of  things  while  you're  waiting.  Where  he 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     115 

came  off  the  perch,  how  far  he's  been  dragged,  and 
all  that.  Be  careful  though,  keep  well  to  the  side  and 
don't  foul  up  the  tracks.  And  don't  get  too  far  away, 
either!" 

He  galloped  off  and  soon  disappeared  over  a  distant 
rise.    Left  to  himself  George  mounted  Fox  and  set  to  ' 
work  to  follow  out  the  senior  constable's  instructions. 

"Well?"  queried  Yorke,  swinging  wearily  out  of  his 
saddle  an  hour  or  so  later,  "How'd  you  make  out? 
Find  the  place  where  he  flopped?  Rum  sort  of  perch 
you've  got  there  —  you  look  like  Patience  on  a  monu- 
ment!" 

George,  seated  upon  the  rump  of  the  dead  horse, 
nodded  and  grunted  laconic  response:  "Sure.  'Bout 
two  miles  down  the  trail  there.  How'd  you  get  along, 
Yorkey?  Did  you  raise  Slavin  and  the  coroner?" 

"Got  Slavin  all  hunkadory,"  said  the  senior  con- 
stable briefly,  "he  should  be  here  soon,  now.  Dr. 
Cox'd  just  left  for  Wilson's,  two  miles  this  side  of 
Cow  Run.  They're  on  the  'phone,  too;  so  I  left  word 
there  for  him  to  come  on  here  right  away."  He  seated 
himself  alongside  the  other. 

Awhile  they  carried  on  a  desultory,  more  or  less 


n6     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

speculative  conversation  anent  the  fatality,  until  they 
grew  morbidly  weary  of  contemplating  the  poor 
broken  body.  Yorke  slid  off  the  dead  horse  suddenly. 
"Wish  Slavin  were  here!"  he  said,  "let's  take  a  dekko 
from  the  top  of  the  rise,  Reddy,  see'f  we  can  see 
him  coming.  I'm  getting  cold  sitting  here." 

Redmond,  nothing  loath,  complied.  Mounting,  they 
turned  back  to  the  summit  of  the  ridge.  Reaching  it, 
the  jingle  of  bells  smote  their  ears,  and  they  espied 
the  Police  cutter  approaching  them  at  a  rapid  pace. 

"Like  unto  Jehu,  the  son  of  Nimshi!"  murmured 
Yorke,  "he's  sure  springing  old  T  and  B  up  the 
grade." 

Sergeant  Slavin  pulled  up  his  smoking  team  along- 
side his  two  mounted  subordinates.  "So  ho,  bhoys!" 
was  his  greeting,  "f what's  this  bizness?" 

Yorke  rapidly  acquainted  him  with  all  the  details. 
At  one  point  in  his  narration  he  had  occasion  to  turn 
to  George:  "That's  how  it  was,  Reddy?"  And  the 
latter  replied,  "That's  about  the  lay  of  it,  Yorkey." 

The  sergeant  listened,  but  absently.  To  them  it 
did  not  seem  exactly  to  be  an  occasion  for  levity; 
but  they  could  have  sworn  that,  behind  an  exaggerated 
grimness  of  mien,  he  was  striving  to  suppress  some 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     117 

inward  mirth,  as  his  deep-set  Irish  eyes  roved  from 
face  to  face. 

"Yez  luk  as  if  yez  had  been  hung  up  an'  dhragged 
tu  —  th'  pair  av  yez,"  he  remarked  casually. 

Remembrance  smote  the  two  culprits.  They  ex- 
changed guilty  glances  and  swallowed  the  home-thrust 
in  silence. 

Slavin  clucked  to  his  team.  "Walk-ware^,  thin!" 
said  he. 

Wheeling  sharply  about,  they  started  down  the  trail 
again,  the  cutter  following  in  their  wake.  If  their  con- 
sciences would  have  permitted  them  to  glance  back 
they  would  have  remarked  their  superior's  face  regis- 
tering unholy  delight. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth  Redmond  shot, 
tensely,  "Dye  think  he  —  " 

"Oh ! "  broke  in  Yorke  resignedly,  sotto  voce.  "You 
can't  fool  him!  .  .  .  Isch  ga  bibble,  anyway!" 

"Yorkey!"  an'  "Reddy!"  that  worthy  was  mum- 
bling to  himself  —  over  and  over  again,  "Yorkey!" 
an'  "Reddy!"  "  'Tis  so  they  name  each  other  —  now! 
Blarney  me  sowl!  'Tis  come  about!  Fifty-fifty,  tu 
—  from  th'  mugs  av  thim.  Peace,  perfect  peace,  in 
th'  fam'ly  at  last!  Eyah!  I  wud  have  given  me 


u8     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

month's  pay-cheque  for  a  ring-side  seat."  He  sighed 
deeply. 

They  reached  the  fatal  spot.  Slavin,  his  levity  gone, 
stepped  out  of  the  cutter  and,  retaining  the  lines  of 
his  restive  team,  stared  long  at  the  gruesome  spectacle 
before  him,  with  a  sort  of  callous  sadness. 

"These  tu  must  have  lain  here  th  night,"  he  re- 
marked, indicating  the  frost-rimed  forms,  "have  yez 
sized  things  up?  Got  th'  lay  av  f where  ut  happened?" 

Redmond  made  affirmative  response. 

"Can  you  place  him,  Sergeant?"  queried  Yorke. 

"Eyah!  Onless  I  am  vastly  mishtuk.  Whoa,  now  I 
shtand  still,  ye  fules!  Fwhat  yez  a-scared  av?  Here, 
Yorkey!  hold  T  an*  B  a  minnut!" 

He  pushed  over  his  lines  to  the  latter  and,  pro- 
ducing  a  pair  of  leather-cased  brand-inspector's 
clippers,  he  cropped  bare  a  circular  patch  on  the  de- 
funct horse's  nigh  shoulder.  Shorn  of  the  thick,  seal- 
brown  whiter  hair,  the  brand  was  now  plainly  visible. 
Enlightenment  came  to  Yorke  in  a  flash,  as  he  peered 
over  his  superior's  shoulder. 

"D  Two!"  he  gasped,  "I  knew  I'd  seen  that  horse 
somewhere!  It's  'Duster/  Larry  Blake's  horse. 
Tchkk!  this  must  be  him.  My  God!" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     119 

"Shure!"  snapped  Slavin  testily.  "Wake  up!  Is 
yeh're  mem'ry  goin',  man?  One  av  yeh're  own 
cases  last  month,  tu!"  He  tenderly  pocketed  the 
clippers.  "Yes!  ye  shud  know  him!"  —  dryly  — 
"lukked  troo  th'  bottom  av  a  glass  wid  him  often 
enough." 

"Let's  see'f  he's  got  any  letters  or  anything  in  his 
pockets —  to  make  sure!"  began  Redmond  eagerly. 
Suiting  the  action  to  the  word  he  bent  down  to  in- 
vestigate. But  Slavin  intruded  a  huge  arm.  "Hould 
on,  bhoy!"  he  said,  with  all  an  old  policeman's  fussi- 
ness  over  rightful  procedure.  "Du  not  touch!  That 
is  th'  coroner's  bizness.  Did  they  not  dhrill  that  inta 
yeh  at  Regina?" 

He  stared  thoughtfully  at  the  corpse.  "Dhrink  an* 
th'  divil!  eyah!  dhrink  an'  th'  divil!"  — sadly. 
"Larry,  me  pore  bhoy!  niver  more  will  ye  come  a- 
whoopin'  ut  out  av  Cow  Run  on  yeh  'Duster'  horse 
.  .  .  shpiflicated  belike  an*  singin'  'Th'  Brisk  Young 
Man."  Austerely  he  glanced  at  Yorke,  "  'Tis  a  curse, 
this  same  dhrink!" 

"How  do  you  know  the  poor  beggar  was  drunk?" 
queried  the  latter,  a  trifle  sulkily.  "He  may  have 
been  as  sober  as  you  or  I." 


120  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Shpeak  for  yehsilf!"  retorted  Slavin  dryly,  "Ah  I 
this  must  be  Docthor  Cox  comin'  now!" 

A  cutter  containing  two  men  was  approaching  them 
rapidly.  Presently  it  drew  up  alongside  the  group 
and  a  short,  rotund  gentleman,  clad  in  furs,  sprang 
out  and  came  swiftly,  bag  in  hand.  He  was  middle- 
aged,  with  a  gray  moustache  and  kind,  alert,  dark 
eyes.  Greeting  the  policemen  quietly,  he  turned  to 
the  broken  body. 

"Tchkk!  good  God!"  He  shook  his  head  sadly. 
Redmond  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  medical  man 
so  unprofessionally  shocked.  Presently  he  straight- 
ened up  and  turned  to  Slavin.  "Can  you  identify  him, 
Sergeant?" 

That  worthy  nodded.  "Eyah!  'tis  Larry  Blake, 
I'm  thinkin',  Docthor.  Best  frisk  him  now  an'  see, 
I  guess.  Maybe  he  has  letthers." 

Hastily  diving  into  his  bag  the  coroner  produced  a 
pair  of  long  keen  scissors  and  slit  the  short,  frozen 
sheepskin  coat.  In  the  breast-pocket  of  the  coat  un- 
derneath, amongst  other  miscellany  two  old  letters  re- 
warded his  search.  He  glanced  at  the  superscriptions 
and  handed  them  up  to  Slavin. 

"Larry  Blake  it  is,"  he  said.    He  felt  the  soggy, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     121 

pulped  head.  "Skull's  stove  right  in.  Any  one  of 
these  smashes  would  have  sufficed  to  kill  him."  He 
clipped  the  hair  around  a  ghastly  gaping  crevice  at 
the  base  of  the  head. 

Suddenly  he  peered  closely,  uttered  an  exclamation, 
peered  again  and  drew  back.  "Sergeant!"  he  said 
sharply,  "D'ye  see  that?  —  No  need  to  ask  you  what 
that  is!"  In  an  unbroken  portion  of  the  back  of  the 
skull  he  indicated  a  small,  circular  orifice.  The  trio 
craned  forward  and  made  minute  examination.  Slavin 
ejaculated  an  oath  and  glanced  up  at  Yorke  —  almost 
remorsefully. 

"I  take  ut  all  back,"  he  said.  Meeting  the  coroner's 
blank,  enquiring  stare  he  added:  "Booze,  Docthor  — 
we  thought  ut  might  be.  ...  Yeh  know  Larry!" 

The  physician  of  Cow  Run  nodded  understandingly. 
Slavin  bent  again  and  made  close  scrutiny  of  the 
bullet-hole.  "Back  av  th'  head,  no  powdher  marks!" 
He  straightened  up.  "Docther,  are  ye  thru?  All  right, 
thin!  Guess  we'll  book  up  an'  start  in." 

Methodically  they  all  produced  note-books  and  en- 
tered the  needful  particulars.  The  lanky  individual 
who  had  driven  the  coroner  out  brought  forward  a 
tarpaulin  and  spread  it  on  the  ground.  With  some 


122     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

difficulty  the  over-shoed  foot  was  disengaged  from  the 
imprisoning  stirrup,  the  body  rolled  in  the  tarpaulin 
and  deposited  in  the  rear  of  the  doctor's  cutter.  The 
saddle  and  bridle  were  flung  into  the  Police  cutter. 
They  then  rolled  the  dead  horse  clear  of  the  trail. 

That  night  the  coyotes  held  grim,  snarling  carnival. 

Slavin  turned  to  Redmond.  "YeVe  located  th' 
place,  eh?"  The  latter  nodded.  "All  right,  thin,  get 
mounted,  th'  tu  av  yez,  an'  lead  on!" 

Keeping  needfully  wide  of  the  broad,  claret-be- 
spotted  swath  in  the  snow,  the  party  started  trailing 
back.  Yorke  and  George  rode  ahead.  The  latter 
glanced  around  to  make  sure  of  being  out  of  earshot  of 
their  sergeant. 

"We-11  of  all  the  hardened  old  cases!  .  .  .  Slavin 
sure  does  crown  'em!"  he  muttered  to  his  comrade. 

"Hardened ! "  Yorke  laughed  grimly.  "You  should 
have  seen  him  up  in  the  Yukon!  The  man's  been 
handling  these  rotten  morgue  cases  'till  he'd  qualify 
for  the  Seine  River  Police.  He's  got  so  he  ascribes 
well-nigh  everything  now  to  'dhrink  an'  th'  divil.' ' 
His  face  softened,  "but  I  know  the  real  heart  of  old 
Burke  under  it  all." 

About  two  miles  down  the  trail  Redmond  halted. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     123 

"Here  it  is!"  he  said.  And  he  indicated  an  irregular, 
blood-soaked,  clawed-up  patch  in  the  snow  where  the 
sanguinary  swath  ended.  They  dismounted.  Slavin 
drawing  up  alongside  the  coroner's  cutter  handed  over 
his  lines  to  the  teamster. 

"Now!"  said  he,  "let's  shtart  in!  .  .  .Ye  must 
have  shpotted  this  on  yeh  way  up,  Docthor?"  He 
pointed  to  the  patch. 

The  latter  nodded.  "Yes!  we  thought  it  must  have 
happened  here." 

For  some  few  seconds,  with  one  accord  the  party 
stared  about  them  at  their  surroundings.  The  frozen 
landscape  at  this  point  presented  a  singularly  lonely, 
desolate  aspect.  Flat,  and  for  the  greater  part  abso- 
lutely bare  of  brush;  save  where  from  a  small  coulee 
some  half  mile  to  the  left  of  the  trail  the  tops  of  a 
cotton-wood  clump  were  visible.  Far  to  the  right- 
hand,  more  than  a  mile  away,  stretched  the  first  of 
the  shelving  benches,  where  the  high  ground  sloped 
away  in  irregular  jumps,  as  it  were,  to  the  river. 

"Best  ye  shtay  fwhere  ye  all  are,"  cautioned  the 
sergeant,  "  'till  I  size  up  th'  lay  av  things  a  bit.  I 
du  not  want  th'  thracks  fouled  up.  H-mm!  let's  see 
now!"  He  remained  in  deep,  thoughtful  silence  a 


124  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

space.  "Thravellin'  towards  us,"  he  muttered  —  "th* 
back  av  th'  head!" 

Hands  clasped  behind  bent  back,  and  with  head 
thrust  loweringly  forward  from  between  his  huge 
shoulders  he  paced  slowly  down  the  trail  for  some 
hundred  yards.  That  grim,  intent  face  and  the  sway- 
ing gait  reminded  Redmond  of  some  huge  bloodhound 
casting  about  for  a  scent. 

Halting  irresolutely  a  moment,  Slavin  presently 
faced  about  and  returned.  "Wan  harse  on'y!"  he 
vouchsafed  to  their  silent  looks  of  enquiry.  "He  had 
not  company.  Must  have  been  shot  from  lift  or  right 
av  th'  thrail."  He  stared  around  him  at  the  bare  sweep 
of  ground.  "Now  f where  cud  any  livin'  man  find 
cover  here  in  th'  full  av  th'  moon,  tu  get  th'  range  wid 
a  small  arm?  He  wud  show  up  agin'  th'  snow  like  th' 
ace  av  shpades  an'  he  thried." 

Suddenly  his  jaw  dropped  and  he  stiffened. 
"Ah-hh! "  His  eyes  rivetted  themselves  on  some  object1*' 

•  -fl ' 

and  his  huge  arm  shot  out.    "Fwhat's  yon?" 

They  all  stared  in  the  direction  he  indicated.  Plas- 
tered with  frosted  snow,  until  it  was  all  but  undis- 
cernible  against  its  white  background,  lay  an  enor- 
mous boulder  —  a  relic,  perchance,  of  some  vast  pre- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     125 

historic  upheaval.  It  was  situated  at  an  oblique  angle 
to  the  trail,  about  a  hundred  yards  distant. 

With  stealthy,  quickened  steps  Slavin  made  his  way 
towards  it.  Tensely  they  watched  him.  In  each  man's 
mind  now  was  a  vague  feeling  of  certainty  of  some- 
thing, they  knew  not  what.  They  saw  him  reach  the 
boulder,  walk  round  it  and  stoop,  peering  at  its  base 
for  a  few  moments.  Then  suddenly  he  straightened 
up  and  beckoned  to  them. 

"Thread  in  file,"  he  called  out  warningly.  Yorke 
led,  and,  treading  needfully  in  each  other's  foot-marks, 
they  reached  the  spot.  Slavin  silently  pointed  down- 
wards. There,  plainly  discernible  on  the  surface  of  the 
wind-packed,  hard-crusted  snow,  were  the  corrugated 
imprints  of  overshoed  feet  —  coming  and  going 
apparently  in  the  direction  of  the  previously  mentioned 
coulee. 

Redmond  indicated  two  rounded  impressions  at  the 
foot  of  the  boulder,  with  two  smaller  ones  behind. 
"Must  have  hunched  himself  on  his  knees  behind, 
eh?"  he  queried  in  a  low  voice. 

Slavin  nodded.  The  rays  of  the  westering  sun  com- 
ing from  back  of  a  cloud  glinted  on  something  in 
the  snow,  a  few  feet  away  from  the  tracks.  It  caught 


126    THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Yorke's   eyes  and  with  an   exclamation  he  picked 
it  up. 

"  —  gold,  raw  gold,  the  spent  shell  rolled  — " 

he  quoted.  "Here  you  are,  Burke!" 
• ,  Slavin  uttered  a  delighted  oath  as  he  examined  the 
small,  bottle-necked  shell  of  the  automatic  variety. 
".38  Luger!"  he  said.  "A  high-pressure  'gat'  like  that 
is  oncommon  hereabouts!"  Passing  it  on  to  the 
coroner  he  whistled  softly.  "My  God!  Fwhativer  sort 
av  a  gun-artist  is  ut  that  —  even  allowin'  for  th'  moon- 
light—  can  pick  a  man  off  thru'  th'  head  wid  a  re- 
volver at  this  distance?  ...  an'  wan  shell  on'y?  .  .  . 
'Soapy  Smith'  himself  cu'dn't  have  beat  this!" 

He  proceeded  to  sift  some  fine,  crisp  snow  in  one  of 
the  imprints,  then,  producing  an  old  letter  from  his 
pocket,  he  flattened  out  the  type-written  sheets  of 
foolscap  therein.  Placing  the  blank  side  of  the  sheet 
face-downwards  upon  the  imprint  he  pressed  down 
smartly.  The  result  was  a  very  fair  impression  of  the 
footmark,  which  he  immediately  outlined  in  pencil. 

A  strange  ominous  silence  fell  upon  the  group.  Deep 
in  wild,  whirling  conjecture,  each  man  gazed  about  him. 
The  desolate,  sinister  aspect  of  their  surroundings 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     127 

struck  them  with  a  sudden  chill.  Yorke  voiced  the 
general  sentiment. 

"My  God!"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "but  it  sure  is 
dreary!" 

With  a  final,  self -satisfying  survey  at  his  "lay  av 
things"  Slavin  stepped  well  to  the  side  of  the  incrimi- 
nating foot-prints.  "Come  on!"  he  said  "get  in  file 
behint  me!  We  will  follow  this  up!" 

Silently  they  obeyed  and  padded  in  his  rear. 

"D d  big  feet,  whoever  owns  'em,"  remarked 

Redmond  to  Yorke. 

Slavin  heard  him.  "Ay!"  he  flung  back  grimly. 
"An'  they  will  shtand  on  th'  dhrop  yet  —  thim  same 
feet!" 

The  tracks  returning  in  the  direction  of  the  coulee 
presented  a  vast  contrast  to  the  approaching  imprints. 
Where  the  latter  denoted  an  even,  steady  stride,  the 
former  ran  in  queer,  irregular  fashion  —  sometimes 
bunched  together,  and  at  others  with  wide  spaces 
between. 

"'On  th'  double!'"  remarked  Slavin  observantly. 
"Must  have  got  scairt!" 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  coroner,  reflectively,  "though 
the  Bible  doesn't  expressly  state  so,  I  guess  Cain,  too, 


128  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

got  on  the  'double'  as  you  call  it —  after  tie  killed 
Abel." 

They  finally  reached  the  coulee  where  the  tracks, 
debouching  from  the  steep  edge,  passed  along  its  rim 
and  presently  descended  the  more  shallow  end  of  the 
draw.  Their  leader  eventually  halted  at  the  foot  of  a 
small  cotton-wood  tree  where  the  human  foot-prints 
ended.  There  in  the  snow  they  beheld  a  hoof-trampled 
space,  which,  together  with  broken  twigs,  indicated  a 
tethered  horse. 

This  served  for  comment  and  speculation  awhile. 
The  sergeant,  producing  a  small  tape  measure  dotted 
down  careful  measurements  of  the  over-shoed  imprints 
and  their  length  of  stride,  also  the  size  of  the  shod 
hoof-marks. 

Redmond  drew  his  attention  to  blood-stains  in 
several  of  the  latter.  "Shod  with  "never-slip* 
calks,  Sergeant!"  he  said.  "Must  have  slipped 
somewhere  and  'calked'  himself  on  the  'coronet/ 
I  guess?" 

"Eyah!"  muttered  Slavin  approvingly,  "Th'  'nigh- 
hind'  'tis,  note,  bhoy!  .  .  .  't'will  serve  good  thrailin* 
—  that.  Well,  let's  follow  ut  on!" 

Wearily  his  companions  plodded  on  in  his  wake. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     129 

The  tracks,  after  following  the  draw  for  a  short  dis- 
tance, suddenly  wound  up  a  steep,  narrow  path  on 
the  left  side  of  the  coulee.  Reaching  the  surface  of 
the  level  ground,  they  circled  until  they  struck  into  the 
main  trail  east  again,  about  a  mile  below  where  the 
party  had  left  their  horses.  Here,  merged  amongst 
countless  others  on  the  well-travelled  highway,  they 
became  more  difficult  to  trace,  though  occasionally  the 
faint  blood-stains  proclaimed  their  identity. 

Slavin  pulled  up.  "Luks  as  if  he'd  shtruck  back  tu 
Cow  Run  again,"  he  said  with  conviction.  "Must 
have  come  from  there,  tu  —  thracks  was  goin'  and 
comin'  an'  ye  noticed,  fwhin  we  climbed  out  av  th* 
coulee  back  there.  We  must  luk  for  a  harse  wid  th* 
nigh-hind  badly  'calked.'  Yorkey!  yu'  get  back  an* 
tell  that  Lanky  Jones  feller  tu  come  on.  Hitch  yez 
own  harses  behint  our  cutter  an*  take  th'  lines."  He 
squinted  at  the  sun  and  pulled  out  his  watch.  "  'Tis 
four  o'clock,  begob!  'T'will  turn  bitther  cowld  whin 
th7  sun  goes  down." 

The  coroner  smiled  knowingly.  "Talking  about 
'calks'!"  he  remarked;  and  diving  into  the  deep  re- 
cesses of  his  fur  coat  he  produced  a  comfortable-lock- 
ing leather-encased  flask.  "A  little  'calk'  all  round 


I3o     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

won't  hurt  us  after  that  tramp,  Sergeant!"  he  observed 
kindly. 

Their  transport  presently  arriving,  they  proceeded 
on  their  way  to  Cow  Run,  Yorke  and  Redmond  watch- 
ing carefully  for  any  tracks  debouching  from  the  main 
trail.  Occasionally  they  dismounted  to  verify  the  in- 
criminating hoof-prints  which  still  continued  east- 
ward. In  this  fashion  they  finally  drew  to  the  level 
of  the  river,  where  the  trail  forked;  one  arm  of  it 
following  more  or  less  the  winding  course  of  the  Bow 
River  back  westward.  At  this  junction  they  searched 
narrowly  until  they  found  unmistakable  indication  of 
the  blood-tinged  tracks  still  heading  in  the  direction  of 
Cow  Run. 

"What  was  that  case  of  yours,  Yorkey?"  enquired 
Redmond.  "You  know  —  what  Slavin  was  talking 
about?" 

"Mix-up  over  that  horse,"  replied  Yorke  laconically, 
"disputed  ownership.  A  chap  named  Moran  tried  to 
run  a  bluff  over  Larry  that  he'd  lost  the  horse  as  a 
colt.  They  got  to  scrapping  and  I  ran  'em  both  up  be- 
fore Gully,  the  J.  P.  here.  Moran  got  fined  twenty 
dollars  and  costs  for  assaulting  Blake.  Sayl  look  at 
that  sky!  Isn't  it  great?" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     131 

They  turned  in  their  saddles  and  looked  westward. 
Clean-cut  against  a  pale  yellow-ochre  background  and 
enveloped  in  a  deep  purple  bloom,  the  mighty  peaks 
of  the  distant  "Rockies"  upreared  their  eternal  snow- 
capped glory  in  a  salute  to  departing  day.  Above, 
where  the  opaline-tinted  horizon  shaded  imperceptibly 
into  the  deep  ultramarine  of  evening,  lay  glowing 
Streamers  of  vivid  crimson  cloud-bank  edged  with  the 
gleaming  gold  of  the  sunset's  after-glow. 

It  was  a  soul-filling  sight.  Against  it  the  sordid 
contrast  of  the  sinister  business  in  hand  smote  them 
like  a  blow  from  an  unseen  hand,  as  they  resumed 
their  monotonous  scanning  of  the  trail  on  its  either 
side. 

Yorke  presently  voiced  the  impression  in  both  their 
hearts.  "My  God!"  he  murmured  "the  bitter  irony 
of  it!  Teace  on  Earth,  goodwill  towards  men'  .  .  . 
and  thisl  — -  what?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

Oh!  Bad  Bill  Brough,  a  way -back  tough 

Raised  hell  when  he  struck  town; 
With  gun-in- fist  met  Sergeant  Twist  — 

It  sure  was  some  show-down. 

BALLAD    OF    SERGEANT    TWIST 

COW  RUN  was  reached  in  the  gathering  dusk. 
Seen  under  winter  conditions  the  drab  little 
town  looked  dreary  and  uninviting  enough  as  the 
party  negotiated  its  main  street.  A  frame-built  hotel,  a 
livery-stable,  a  small  church,  a  school-house,  a  line  of 
false-fronted  stores,  and  some  three-score  dwellings 
failed  to  arouse  in  George  an  enthusiastic  desire  to 
become  a  permanent  resident  of  Cow  Run. 

The  corpse  they  deposited  temporarily  in  an  empty 
shack  situated  in  the  rear  of  the  doctor's  residence. 
From  long  usage  this  place  had  come  to  be  accepted 
as  the  common  morgue  of  the  district.  After  arranging 
details  with  the  coroner  anent  the  morrow's  inquest, 
and  carefully  searching  the  dead  man,  the  sergeant  and 
his  two  subordinates  repaired  to  the  livery-stable  to 
put  up  their  horses. 

132 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     133 

Nicholas  Lee,  the  keeper  of  this  establishment, 
greeted  them  with  wheezy  cordiality,  apportioned  to 
them  stable-room  and  guaranteed  especial  care  of  their 
horses.  In  appearance  that  worthy  would  have  made  a 
passable  understudy  for  the  elder  Weller,  being  red- 
faced,  generous  of  girth  and  short  of  breath.  In 
addition  to  his  regular  calling  he  filled  —  or  was  sup- 
posed to  fill — the  office  of  "town  constable"  and  pound- 
keeper.  A  sort  of  village  "Dogberry."  Incidentally 
it  might  be  mentioned  that  he  also  could  have  laid 
claim  to  be  a  "wictim  of  circumstances";  having  but 
recently  contracted  much  the  same  sort  of  hymeneal 
bargain  as  did  the  Dickensian  character.  The  sym- 
pathy of  Cow  Run,  individually  and  collectively,  was 
extended  to  him  on  this  account. 

From  his  somewhat  garrulous  recital  of  the  day's 
events  it  was  satisfactorily  evident  to  his  hearers  that 
wind  of  the  murder  had  not  struck  Cow  Run  as  yet. 
For  obvious  reasons  Slavin  had  enjoined  strict  secrecy 
upon  Lanky  Jones,  Lee's  stable-hand. 

"Ar!"  wheezed  Lee  "It's  a  good  job  yu'  fellers  is 
come.  That  ther  'Windy  Moran's'  bin  raisin'  hell  over 
in  the  hotel  th'  las'  two  days.  He  got  to  fightin'  ag'in 
las'  night  with  Larry  Blake  —  over  that  hawss.  Bob 


134    THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Ingalls  an'  Chuck  Reed  an'  th'  bunch  dragged  'em 
apart  an'  tol'  Larry  to  beat  it  back  to  his  ranch  — 
which  he  did.  Windy  —  they  got  him  to  bed,  an'  kep' 
him  ther  all  night,  as  he  swore  he'd  shoot  Larry.  He's 
still  over  ther,  nasty-drunk  an'  shootin'  off  what  he's 
goin'  t'  do." 

He  rubbed  his  hands  in  gleeful  anticipation,  gloating 
deeply  in  his  throat:  "Stirrin'  times!  ar!  stirrin'  times! 
:.  .  .  Now  —  'bout  that  ther  hobo,  Sargint  —  " 

"Awl  damn  th'  hobo!"  exploded  Slavin  impatiently. 
"Here,  Nick!  show  me  Windy 'sharse.  Fwhat?  Niver 
yeh  mind  fwhat  for.  .  .  now!  Yu'll  know  all  'bout 
that  later." 

His  native  curiosity  balked,  the  old  gossip,  with 
a  slightly  injured  air,  indicating  a  big  sorrel  saddle- 
horse  standing  in  a  stall  opposite  the  Police  team. 
Slavin  backed  the  animal  out.  It  seemed  to  be  lame. 
With  fierce  eagerness  they  examined  its  "nigh-hind" 
leg  —  and  found  what  they  sought  for. 

For  there  —  where  the  hair  joins  the  hoof,  techni- 
cally known  as  the  "coronet"  —  was  a  deep,  jagged 
wound,  such  as  is  caused  usually  by  a  horse  slipping 
and  jabbing  itself  with  sharp-pointed  shoe-calks.  The 
hoof  itself  was  stained  a  dull  red  where  the  blood  had 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     135 

run  down.  Slavin  picked  up  a  fore-foot  and  exhibited 
to  them  the  round-pointed,  screwed-in  calks,  commonly 
known  as  "neverslips."  He  took  the  measurements 
of  the  shoe  and  glanced  at  his  note-book. 

Finally,  with  a  significant  gesture  and  amidst  dead 
silence,  he  thrust  the  book  back  in  his  pocket.  Handing 
over  the  horse  to  Lee  he  bade  him  tie  it  up  again. 

Wordlessly,  the  trio  exchanged  mystified  glances'. 
"See  here;  look,  Nick!"  Slavin  grasped  the  livery- 
man's fat  shoulder  and  looked  grimly  into  the  startled, 
rubicund  face.  "I'm  a-goin'  tu  put  a  question  tu  yeh, 
an'  'member  now.  ...  I  want  yeh  tu  think  harrd! 
.  .  .  Now  —  whin  Larry  Blake  came  in  tu  saddle-up 
an'  pull  out  last  night  was  that  ther  sorrel  o'  Windy's 
still  in  th'  stable  —  or  not?" 

"Eh?"  gasped  Lee  at  last,  "I  dunno!  Me  nor  Lanky 
wasn't  around  when  Larry  pulled  out.  We  was  over 
t'  th'  hotel,  Sarjint." 

Slavin  released  the  man's  shoulder  with  a  testy, 
balked  gesture.  "Yes!  enjoyin'  th'  racket  an'  dhrunk 
like  th'  rist,  I  guess!  .  .  .  'Tis  a  foine  sort  av  town- 
constable  yez  are!" 

Nick  Lee  maintained  his  air  of  injured  innocence. 
"I  came  round  here  'bout  midnight,  anyways!"  he  pro- 


I36  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

tested.  "I  always  do  —  jes'  t'  see  'f  everything  all 
right.  That  hawss  was  in  then,  I  will  swear  —  'cause  I 
'member  his  halter-shank'd  come  untied  and  I  fixed  it. 
Ev'rythin'  in  th'  garden  was  lovely  'cep'  fur  that 
damned  hobo  sneakin'  round.  He  was  gettin' 
a  drink  at  th'  trough  an'  I  chased  him.  But  he  beat 
it  up  inta  th'  loft  an'  —  I'm  that  scared  of  fire,"  he 
•ended  lamely,  "I  never  lock  up  fur  that." 

Slavin  nodded  wisely.  "Yes!  I  guess  he  made  his 
getaway  from  yu'  —  easy.  Mighty  long  toime  since 
yuh've  bin  able  tu  dhrag  yeh're  guts  up  that  ladder  — 
lit  alone  squeege  thru'  th'  thrap-dhure.  Bet  Lanky 
does  all  th'  chorin'."  He  glanced  around  him  impa- 
tiently, "But  this  here's  all  talk  —  it  don't  lead  no- 
wheres.  Hullo!  this  is  Gully's  team,  ain't  it?"  He 
indicated  a  splendid  pair  of  roans  standing  in  a  double 
stall  nearby. 

"Yes!"  said  Lee,  "he  pulled  in  las'  night  t'  catch 
th'  nine-thirty  down  t'  Calgary.  He  ain't  back  yet." 

"Fwas  he  —  "  Slavin  checked  himself  abruptly  — 
"fwhat  toime  did  he  get  in  here?" 

"  'Bout  nine." 

"Fwhat  toime  'bout  fwas  ut  whin  this  racket 
shtarted  up  betune  Windy  an'  Larry?" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     137 

"Oh,  I  dunno,  Sarjint!  — 'bout  nine,  may  be  —  as 
I  say  I  —  " 

"Come  on!"  said  the  sergeant,  abruptly,  to  his  men, 
"let's  go  an'  eat.  Luk  afther  thim  harses  good,  Nick," 
he  flung  back  in  a  kind  tone. 

Outside  in  the  dark  road  they  gathered  together, 
bandying  mystified  conjecture  in  low  tones.  "  'Tis 
no  use  arguin',  bhoys,"  snapped  Slavin  at  last, 
wearily,  "we've  got  tu  see  Chuck  Reed  an'  Bob  In- 
galls  an'  Brophy  av  th'  hotel.  Their  wurrd  goes  — 
they're  straight  men.  If  they  had  Windy  corralled 
all  night,  as  Nick  sez  .  .  .  fwhy!  .  .  .  that  let's 
Windy  out." 

He  was  silent  awhile,  then:  "That  harse  av 
Windy's,"  he  burst  out  with  an  oath,  "I  thought  't'was 
a  cinch.  Somethin'  passin'  rum  'bout  all  this.  There's 
abs'lutely  no  mistake  'bout  th'  harse.  Somebody  in 
this  god-forsaken  burg  must  ha'  used  him  tu  du  th' 
killin'  wid.  Well,  let's  get  on." 

Suddenly,  as  they  neared  the  hotel,  a  veritable  bed- 
lam of  sound  fell  upon  their  ears,  apparently  from  in- 
side that  hostelry  —  men  shouting,  a  dog  barking,  and 
above  all  the  screeching,  crazed  voice  of  a  drunken 
man. 


138  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

The  startled  policemen  dashed  into  the  front  en- 
trance, through  the  office  and  across  the  passage  into 
the  bar  beyond,  from  whence  the  uproar  proceeded. 

"Help!  Murder!  Fleece!"  some  apparently  high- 
strung  individual  was  bawling.  A  ludicrous,  but  never- 
theless dangerous,  sight  met  their  eyes. 

A  motley  crowd,  composed  mainly  of  well-dressed 
passengers  from  off  the  temporarily-stalled  West- 
bound train  and  a  sprinkling  of  townsfolk,  were 
backed  —  hands  up  —  into  a  corner  of  the  bar  by  a 
big,  hard-faced  man  clad  in  range  attire  who  was 
menacing  them  with  a  long-barrelled  revolver.  He 
was  dark-haired  and  swarthy,  with  sinister,  glittering 
eyes.  One  red-headed,  red-nosed  individual  had  ap- 
parently resented  parting  with  the  drink  that  he  had 
paid  for;  as  in  one  decidedly-shaky  elevated  hand  he 
still  clutched  his  glass,  its  whiskey  and  water  con- 
tents slopping  down  the  neck  of  his  nearest  unfortu- 
nate neighbour. 

"Mon!"  he  apologized,  in  tearful  accents,  "Ah  juist 
canna  help  it!" 

"Pitch  up!"  the  "bad  man"  was  shrieking,  "Pitch 

up!  yu' s!  —  That  d d  Blake!  —that  d d 

Gully!  Stealin'  my  hawss  away'f  me  an'  gittin'  me 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     139 

fined!  I'll  git  back  at  somebody  fur  this!  Fleece! 
yes!  — yeh  kin  holler  'Fleece!' --Let  me  get  th'  drop 

on  th'  red-coated,  yelluh-laigged  sons  of  1 

Ah-hh!" His  eyes  glittered  with  his  insane  pas- 
sion, "Here  they  come!  Now!  watch  th'  s  try 

an'  arrest  me!" 

Fairly  frothing  at  the  mouth,  the  man,  at  that  mo- 
ment working  himself  into  a  frenzy,  was  plainly  as 
dangerous  as  a  mad  dog.  Drunk  though  he  undoubt- 
edly was,  he  did  not  stagger  as  he  stepped  to  and  fro 
with  cat-like  activity,  his  gun  levelled  at  the  police- 
men's heads.  It  was  an  ugly  situation.  Slavin  and 
his  men  taken  utterly  by  surprise  hesitated,  as  well 
they  might;  for  a  single  attempt  to  draw  their  side- 
arms  might  easily  bring  inglorious  death  upon  one 
or  another  of  them. 

We  have  noted  that  on  a  previous  occasion  Redmond 
demonstrated  his  ability  to  think  and  act  quickly.  He 
upheld  that  reputation  now.  Like  a  flash  he  ducked 
behind  Slavin's  broad  shoulders  and  backed  into  the 
passage.  Picking  up  at  random  the  first  missile  avail- 
able—  to  wit  —  an  empty  soda-water  bottle,  he  tip- 
toed swiftly  along  the  passage  to  a  door  opening  into 
the  bar  lower  down.  This  practically  brought  him 


140  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

broadside-on  to  his  man.  A  moment  he  peered  and 
judged  his  distance  then,  drawing  back  his  arm  he 
flung  the  bottle  with  all  his  force.  At  McGill  he  had 
been  a  base-ball  pitcher  of  some  renown,  so  his  aim 
was  true.  The  bottle  caught  its  objective  full  in  the 
ear.  With  a  scream  of  pain  the  man  staggered  for- 
ward and  clutched  with  one  hand  at  his  head,  his 
gun  still  in  his  grip  sagging  floorwards. 

Instantly  then,  Yorke,  who  was  the  nearest,  sprang 
at  him  like  a  tiger  and,  flinging  one  arm  around  his 
enemy's  bull  neck,  strove  with  the  other  to  wrest  the 
gun  from  his  grasp.  It  was  a  feat  however,  more? 
easily  imagined  than  accomplished  —  to  disarm  a 
powerful,  active  man.  The  tense  fingers  tightened 
immediately  upon  the  weapon  and  resisted  to  their 
uttermost.  Slavin  and  Redmond  both  had  their  side- 
arms  drawn  now,  but  they  were  afraid  to  use  them, 
on  Yorke's  account.  The  combatants  were  whirling 
giddily  to  and  fro,  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  describing 
every  point  of  the  compass. 

Taking  a  risky  chance,  Slavin,  watching  his  oppor- 
tunity suddenly  closed  with  the  struggling  men  and, 
raising  his  arm  brought  the  barrel  of  his  heavy  Colt's 
*45  smashing  down  on  the  knuckles  of  the  crazed  man's 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     141 

gun-hand.  Instantaneously  the  latter's  weapon 
dropped  to  the  floor. 

Bang!  The  cocked  hammer  discharged  one  chamber 
— the  bullet  ricocheting  off  the  brass  bar-rail  deflected 
through  a  cluster  of  glasses  and  bottles,  smashing 
them  and  a  long  saloon-mirror  into  a  myriad  splinters. 
But  few  of  the  company  there  escaped  the  deadly  fly- 
ing glass,  as  badly-gashed  faces  immediately  testified. 
It  all  happened  in  quicker  time  than  it  takes  to  relate. 

"'Crown'  him!"  gasped  Yorke,  still  grimly  hanging 
onto  his  man,  "  'Crown'  the  • ••  good  and  hard!" 

Redmond  sprang  forward,  grasping  a  small,  shot- 
loaded  police  "billy,"  but  Slavin  interposed  a  huge  arm. 

"Nay!"  he  said  sharply,  and  with  curious  eagerness, 
"Du  not  'chrown'  um  bhoy!  lave  um  tu  me!"  And  he 
grasped  one  of  the  big,  struggling  man's  wrists  firmly 
in  a  vise-like  grip.  "Leggo,  Yorkey ! " 

The  latter  obeyed  with  alacrity,  and  stooping  he 
picked  up  the  fallen  gun.  He  had  an  inkling  of  what 
was  coming. 

"Ah-hh!"  Slavin  gloated  gutterally,  as  he  whirled  his 
victim  giddily  around  and  brought  the  man  up  facing 
him  with  a  violent  jerk  —  "Windy  Moran,  avick!" — * 
softly  and  cruelly  —  "me  wud-be  cock  av  a  wan-harse 


142  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

dump! — me  wud-be  'bad-man'!  .  .  .  Oh,  yes!  'tis 
both  shockin'  an'  brutil  tu  misthreat  ye  I  know  but 
• — surely,  surely  yeh  desarve  somethin'  for  all  this!" 
And  he  drew  back  his  formidable  right  arm. 

Smack!  The  terrific  impact  of  that  one,  terrible 
open-handed  slap  nearly  knocked  his  victim  through 
the  bar-room  wall.  The  head  rocked  sideways  and  the 
big  body  turned  completely  round.  Eyes  rushing  water 
and  one  profile  now  resembling  a  slab  of  bloodied  liver, 
the  man  reeled  about  in  a  circle  as  if  bereft  of  sight.  ; 

"Oh-hh !  —  Ooh !  —  No-o !  —  Ah-hh ! "  The  wild, 
moaning  cry  for  quarter  came  gaspingly  out  of  puffed^ 
blood-foamed  lips.  But  there  was  no  mercy  in  Slavin. 
He  looked  round  at  the  wrecked  bar,  the  glass-slashed 
bleeding  faces  of  his  men  and  the  rest  of  the  saloon's 
occupants.  He  thought  upon  many  things  —  how  near 
ignoble  death  many  of  them  had  been  but  a  few 
minutes  before — upon  insult  and  threat  flaunted  at 
them  by  a  drunken,  ruffling  braggadocio!  — and  he 
jerked  the  latter  to  him  once  more. 

But  his  two  subordinates  jumped  forward  and  made 
violent  protest.  "Steady!"  It  was  Yorke  now  who 
appealed  for  leniency  —  "Go  easy,  Burke!  for  God's 
sake!  You've  handed  him  one  good  swipe— •. if  he 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     143 

get's  another  like  that  he'll  be  all  in  —  won't  be  able 
to  talk.  Let  it  go  at  that!" 

The  sergeant  remained  silent,  breathing  thickly  and 
glaring  at  his  prisoner  with  sinister,  glittering  eyes,  and 
still  retaining  the  latter's  wrist  in  his  iron  grip.  But 
eventually  the  force  of  Yorke's  reasoning  prevailed 
with  him.  Drawing  out  his  hand-cuffs  he  snapped  them 
on  the  man's  wrists  and  haled  him  roughly  out  of  the 
bar  into  the  hotel  office.  The  crowd,  recovering  some- 
what from  their  scare,  would  have  followed,  but  he 
icurtly  ordered  them  back  and  closed  the  door. 

"Brophy!"  He  beckoned  the  angry,  frightened 
hotel-proprietor  forward.  "Is  Bob  Ingalls  and  Chuck 
Reed  still  in  town?" 

"Sure!"  replied  the  latter,  "They  was  both  in  here 
'bout  half  an  hour  ago,  anyways." 

Slavin  turned  to  Yorke.  "Go  yu  an'  hunt  up  thim 
fellers  an'  bring  thim  here!"  he  ordered. 

"Ravin'  —  clean  bug-house!  that's  what  he  is!" 
wailed  Brophy.  "That  bar  o'  mine!  oh,  Lord!  Yu'll 
git  it  soaked  to  yu'  this  time,  Windy,  an'  don't  yu' 
furgitit!" 

The  prisoner  paid  no  attention  to  the  landlord's 
revilings.  Slumped  down  in  a  chair  he  had  relapsed 


i44  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

into  a  sort  of  sulky  stupor,  though  he  cringed  visibly 
whenever  Slavin  bent  on  him  his  thoughtful,  sinister 
gaze. 

Presently  Yorke  returned,  bringing  with  him  two 
respectable-looking  men,  apparently  ranchers,  from 
their  appearance. 

Slavin  nodded  familiarly  to  them.  "Ingalls!"  he 
addressed  one  of  them  "I'm  given  tu  undhershtand  that 
yuh  an'  Chuck  Reed  there  tuk  charge  av  this  feller  - 
he  indicated  the  prisoner  —  "last  night,  whin  he  had 
that  racket  wid  Larry  Blake  in  th'  bar?  Fwhat  was 
they  rowin'  over?" 

"That  hawss  o'  Blake's  mostly,"  was  Ingalls'  laconic 
answer.  "Course  they  was  slingin'  everythin'  else  they 
could  dig  down  an'  drag  up,  too."  He  chewed  thought- 
fully a  moment,  "We  had  some  time  with  'em,"  he 
added. 

"Shore  did!"  struck  in  Reed.  "We  was  scared  fur 
Larry,  so  we  told  him  to  beat  it  home  —  which  he  did 
—  an'  then  we  got  Windy  up  to  bed  an'  stayed  with 
him  nigh  all  night." 

Slavin  looked  at  Brophy  interrogatively.  "Yuh  can 
vouch  for  this,  tu,  Billy?  He's  bin  in  yu're  place  iver 
since  th'  throuble  shtarted?" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     145 

Brophy  nodded.  "Yes!  d n  him!  I  wish  he  had 

got  out  before  this  bizness  started.  Yes!  he's  bin  here 
right  along,  Sarjint!  why?  —  what's  up?" 

Slavin  evaded  the  direct  question  for  the  moment. 
Silently  awhile  he  gazed  at  the  three  wondering  faces. 
"Now,  I'll  tell  yez!"  he  said  slowly.  And  briefly  he 
informed  them  of  the  murder  —  omitting  all  detail  of 
the  clues  obtained  later.  They  listened  with  wide  eyes 
and  broke  out  into  startled  exclamations.  The  pris- 
oner struggled  up  from  the  chair,  his  bruised,  ghastly 
face  registering  fear  and  genuine  astonishment.  Red- 
mond shoved  him  back  again. 

"If  any  feller  thinks — "  Moran  relapsed  into 
maudlin,  hysterical  protestations  of  innocence,  calling 
upon  the  Deity  to  bear  witness  that  he  was  innocent 
and  had  no  knowledge  whatever  of  how  Blake  came  to 
his  death. 

Eventually  silence  fell  upon  all.  Slavin  cogitated 
awhile,  then  he  turned  to  Brophy.  "Who  else  was 
in,  Billy?  Out  av  town  fellers  I  mean,  fwhin  this 
racket  occurred  betune  these  tu?  Thry  an'  think 
now!" 

Brophy  pondered  long  and  presently  reeled  off  a 
few  names.  Slavin  heard  him  out  and  shook  his  head 


146     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

negatively.  "Nothin'  doin'  there!"  he  announced 
finally,  "Mr.  Gully  was  in,  yuh  say?  Did  he  see  any- 
thin'  av  this  row?" 

"Cudn't  help  it,  I  guess,"  replied  Brophy.  "He 
just  come  inta  th'  office  for  his  grip  while  it  was  a- 
goin'  on.  He  beat  it  out  quick  for  th'  East-bound  as 
had  just  come  in.  Said  he  was  runnin'  down  to  Cal- 
gary. He  ain't  back  yet.  Guess  he  wudn't  want  to 
go  gettin'  mixed  up  in  anythin'  like  that,  either—- 
him  bein'  a  J.  P." 

Slavin  looked  at  Yorke.  "Let's  have  a  luk  at  that 
gun  av  Moran's!"  he  remarked.  "Fwhat  is  ut?" 

Yorke  handed  the  weapon  over.  "  'Smith  and 
Wesson'  single-action,"  he  said.  "Just  that  one  round 
gone." 

"Nothin  doin'  agin'/'  muttered  Slavin  disappoint- 
edly. He  broke  the  gun  and,  ejecting  the  shells  put 

all  in  his  pocket.  He  then  turned  to  Moran.  "D d 

good  job  for  yu'  —  havin'  this  alibi,  Mister  Windy!" 
he  growled,  "don't  seem  anythin'  on  yu'  over  this 
killin'  —  as  yet!  But  yez  are  goin'  tu  get  ut  f where 
th'  bottle  got  th'  cork  for  this  other  bizness,  me  man!" 
And  he  proceeded  to  formally  charge  and  warn  his 
prisoner. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     147 

"Give  us  a  room,  Brophy!"  he  said,  "a  big  wan  for 
th'  bunch  av  us  —  an'  lave  a  shake-down  on  th'  flure 
for  this  feller!" 

Preceded  by  the  landlord  the  trio  departed  up- 
stairs, escorting  their  prisoner.  Alone  in  the  room 
they  discussed  matters  in  lowered  tones;  Slavin  and 
Yorke  not  forgetting  to  compliment  Redmond  on  his 
presence  of  mind  —  or,  as  the  sergeant  put  it:  "Di- 
vartin'  his  attenshun." 

The  big  Irishman  scratched  his  chin  thoughtfully. 
"I  must  go  wire  th'  O.C.  report  av  all  this.  Sind 
Gully  comes  back  on  th'  san?.e  thrain  wid  Inspector 
Kilbride  to-morrow.  Thin  we  can  go  ahead  —  wid 
two  J.  P.s  tu  handle  things.  Yuh  take  charge  av  Mr. 
Man,  Ridmond!  Me  an'  Yorke  will  go  an'  eat  now, 
an'  relieve  yuh  later." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"The  Court  is  prepared,  the  Lawyers  are  met, 

The  Judges  all  ranged,  a  terrible  show!" 
'As  Captain  Macheath  says,  —  and  when  one's  arraigned, 

The  sight's  as  unpleasant  a  one  as  I  know. 

THE  INGOLDSBY  LEGEOTS. 

ORRRDHER    IN    COORT!"    rang    out    Ser- 
geant Slavin's  abrupt  command.    It  was  about 
ten  o'clock  the  following  morning.    The  hotel 
parlour  had  been  hastily  transformed  into  a  temporary 
court-room.    A  large  square  table  had  been  drawn  to 
one  end  of  the  room  and  two  easy  chairs  placed  con- 
veniently behind  it.     Fronting  it  was  a  long  bench, 
designed  for  the  prisoner  and  escort.    In  the  immediate 
rear  were  arranged  a  few  rows  of  chairs^  to  accommo- 
date the  witnesses  and  spectators. 

The  sergeant's  order,  prompted  by  the  entrance  of 
the  two  Justices  of  the  Peace,  was  the  occasion  of  all 
present  rising  to  attention,  in  customary  deference  to 
police-court  rules.  One  of  the  newcomers,  dressed  in 
the  neat  blue-serge  uniform  of  an  inspector  of  the 

148 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     149 

Force,  was  familiar  to  Redmond  as  Inspector  Kilbride, 
Who  had  been  recently  transferred  to  L  Division  from 
a  northern  district.  He  had  close-cropped  gray  hair 
and  a  clipped,  grizzled  moustache.  Though  apparently 
Hearing  middle-age  he  still  possessed  the  slim,  wiry, 
Active  figure  of  a  man  long  inured  to  the  saddle. 

The  appearance  of  his  judicial  confrere  fairly  startled 
George.  He  was  a  huge  fellow,  fully  as  tall  and  as 
heavy  a  man  as  Slavin,  though  not  so  compactly-built 
or  erect  as  the  latter.  Still,  his  wide,  loosely-hung, 
slightly  bowed  shoulders  suggested  vast  strength,  and 
his  leisurely  though  active  movements  indicated  abso- 
lute muscular  control.  But  it  was  the  strangely  sombre, 
mask-like  face  which  excited  Redmond's  interest  most. 
Beneath  the  broad,  prominent  brow  of  a  thinker  a 
pair  of  deep-set,  shadowy  dark  eyes  peered  forth,  with 
the  lifeless,  unwinking  stare  of  an  owl.  Between  them 
jutted  a  large,  bony  beak  of  a  nose,  with  finely-cut 
nostrils.  The  pitiless  set  of  the  powerful  jaw  was  only 
partially  concealed  by  an  enormous  drooping  mous- 
tache, the  latter  reddish  in  colour  and  streaked  with 
gray,  like  his  thinning,  carefully  brushed  hair.  His 
age  wa§  hard  to  determine.  Somewhere  around  forty- 
five,  George  decided,  as  he  regarded  with  covert  in- 


150  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

terest  Ruthven  Gully,  Esq.,  gentleman-rancher  and 
Justice  of  the  Peace  for  the  district. 

The  two  Justices  took  their  places  with  magisterial 
decorum,  the  witnesses  seated  themselves  again,  and, 
all  being  ready,  the  sergeant  opened  the  court  with  its 
time-honoured  formula. 

The  inspector  glanced  over  the  various  "informa- 
tions" and  handed  them  over  to  his  confrere  for  perusal. 
A  brief  whispered  colloquy  ensued  between  them,  and 
then  the  local  justice  settled  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
chin  in  hand.  Inspector  Kilbride  addressed  the 
prisoner  who  had  remained  standing  between  Yorke 
and  Redmond,  and  in  a  clear,  passionless  voice  pro- 
ceeded to  read  out  the  several  charges. 

"Do  you  wish  to  ask  for  a  remand,  Moran?"  he 
enquired,  "to  enable  you  to  procure  counsel?" 

"No,  sir!"  Moran's  sullen,  insolent  eyes  suddenly 
encountering  a  dangerous,  steely  glare  from  Kilbride's 
gray  orbs  he  wilted  and  immediately  dropped  his  bel- 
ligerent attitude.  "No  use  me  hirin'  a  mouthpiece," 
he  added,  "as  I'm  a-goin'  t'  plead  guilty  t'  all  them 
charges." 

"Ah!"  The  inspector  thoughtfully  conned  over  the 
"informations"  once  more.  "Sergeant  Slavin,"  said  he 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     151 

presently,  "what  are  the  particulars  of  this  man's 
disorderly  conduct?" 

He  listened  awhile  to  the  sergeant's  evidence, 
occasionally  asking  a  question  or  two,  but  Mr.  Gully 
remained  in  the  same  silent,  brooding,  inscrutable  atti- 
tude which  he  had  adopted  at  the  commencement  of  the 
proceedings.  Though  apparently  listening  keenly,  his 
shadowy  eyes  betrayed  no  interest  whatever  in  the 
case. 

Of  that  face  Yorke  had  once  remarked  to  Slavin: 
"That  beggar's  mug  fairly  haunts  me  sometimes.  .  .  . 
He's  a  good  fellow,  Gully,  —  but,  you  know  —  when 
he  gets  that  brooding  look  on  his  face  .  .  .  he's  the 
living  personification  of  a  western  Eugene  Aram." 

And  Slavin,  engaged  in  shredding  a  pipeful  of 
tobacco  had  mumbled  absently  "So?  —  Ujin  Airum! 
—  I  du  not  mind  th'  ould  shtiff  —  fwhat  was  his  reg'- 
minthal  number?" 

The  sergeant  finished  his  evidence;  Kilbride  swung 
round  to  his  fellow-justice  once  more  and  they  held  a 
whispered  consultation,  the  latter  making  emphatic 
gestures  throughout  the  colloquy.  This  ending  the 
inspector  turned  to  the  prisoner. 

"You  have  pleaded  guilty  to  each  of  these  charges. 


152  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Have  you  anything  to  say?  —  any  explanation  to  offer 
for  your  reckless,  disorderly  conduct?" 

The  prisoner  swallowed  nervously  and  shuffled  with 
his  feet.  "Guess  I  was  drunk,"  he  said  finally,  "didn't 
know  what  I  was  doin'." 

The  inspector's  grey  eyes  glittered  coldly.  "So?" 
he  drawled  ironically,  "the  sergeant's  evidence  is  to  the 
contrary.  It  would  appear  that  you  were  not  so  very 
drunk.  You  were  neither  staggering  nor  incapable  at 
the  time.  It  was  merely  a  rehearsal  of  a  cheap  bit  of 
dime  novel  sort  of  bar-room,  rough-house  black- 
guardism that  no  doubt  in  various  other  places  you 
have  got  away  with  and  emerged  the  swaggering  hero. 
Where  do  you  come  from?  Whom  are  you  working  for 
now?" 

"Havre,  Montana.  I'm  ridin'  fur  th'  North-West 
Cattle  Company." 

"Ah!  well,  let  me  tell  you  that  sort  of  stuff  doesn't 
go  over  on  this  side,  my  man."  He  considered  a 
moment  and  picked  up  a  Criminal  Code.  "In  view 
of  your  pleading  guilty  to  these  charges,  and  therefore 
not  wasting  the  time  of  this  court  unnecessarily,  I 
propose  dealing  with  you  in  more  lenient  fashion  than 
you  deserve.  For  being  unlawfully  in  possession  of 


153 

firearms  you  are  fined  twenty  dollars  and  costs.  For 
'pointing  fire-arms/  fifty  dollars  and  costs.  On  the 
charge  of  'resisting  the  police  in  the  execution  of  their 
duty'  you  are  sentenced  to  six  months  imprisonment 
with  hard  labour  in  the  Mounted  Police  Guard-room 
at  Calgary.  You  are  also  required  to  make  restitution 
for  all  damage  caused  as  the  result  of  your  fracas." 

Moran  squirmed  and  mumbled:  "If  I've  got  t'  do 
time  on  the  one  charge  I  might  as  well  do  it  on  th' 
rest,  an'  save  th'  money  fur  t'  pay  fur  th'  damage." 

"Very  good!"  agreed  the  inspector  coldly.  He  bent 
again  to  his  confrere  and  they  conferred  awhile.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  prisoner.  "Thirty  days  hard  labour 
then  —  on  each  of  the  first  two  charges  —  sentences 
to  run  concurrently."  He  paused  a  space,  resuming 
sternly:  "And  let  me  tell  you  this,  Moran:  in  view  of 
certain  wild  threats  uttered  by  you  in  public  you  have 
narrowly  escaped  being  charged  with  the  greatest  of 
all  crimes.  It  is  indeed  a  fortunate  thing  for  you 
that  you  have  been  able  to  produce  a  reliable  alibi. 
All  right,  Sergeant!  you  can  close  the  court.  Make 
out  that  warrant  of  commitment  and  I  and  Mr.  Gully 
will  sign  it  later.  We're  going  over  to  see  the  coroner." 

The  two  Justices  arose  and  passed  out,  the  few 


154  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

witnesses  and  onlookers  drifting  aimlessly  in  their 
wake.  Slavin  lowered  himself  ponderously  into  the 
chair  just  vacated  by  the  inspector,  lit  his  pipe,  and, 
whistling  softly,  commenced  to  fill  out  a  legal  form. 
Yorke  and  Redmond  also  took  the  opportunity  to  in- 
dulge in  a  quiet  smoke  as  they  chatted  together  in 
low  tones.  The  former  good-naturedly  tossed  a 
cigarette  over  to  the  prisoner,  with  the  remark:  "Have 
a  smoke,  Windy  —  it's  the  last  you'll  get  for  some 
time." 

Moran,  slumped  in  a  tipped-back  chair,  blew  a  whiff 
of  smoke  from  a  lop-sided  mouth.  "Six  months!" 
chanted  he  lugubriously,  "an'  they  call  this  a  free 
country!  —  free  hell!  — 

"Oh,  bury  me  out  on  th'  lone  prair-et, 
Where  th'  wild  ki-oot'll  howl  over  me, — 

—  might  as  well  an'  ha'  done  with  it!" 

They  all  laughed  unsympathetically.  "  'Tis  mighty 
lucky  for  yuh  thim  sintences  run  concurrently  instid 
av  consecutively,"  was  the  sergeant's  rejoinder,  "or 
ut'd  be  eight  months  yez  ud  be  doin'  stid  av  six." 

The  front  legs  of  Moran's  chair  suddenly  hit  the 
floor  with  a  crash.  "Lookit  here,  boys,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "that  ther  big  mag'strate  —  him  as  you 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     155 

call  Gully  —  is  that  his  real  name?  Wher  does  he 
come  from?  What  countryman  is  he?" 

"English!"  answered  Yorke  shortly.  "Why?  D'ye 
think  an  Englishman  has  to  run  around  with  a 
blooming  alias?" 

"Well,  now,  yu'  needn't  go  t'  git  huffy  with  a  man!" 
expostulated  Moran,  with  an  injured  air.  "Th' 
reason  I'm  askin'  yu'  is  this":  He  paused  impres- 
sively, with  puckered,  thoughtful  eyes.  "That  same 
man  —  if  it  ain't  him  —  is  th'  dead  spit  of  a  man  as 

once  hit County,  in  Montana  'bout  ten  years 

back.  Dep'ty  Sheriff  —  I  can't  mind  his  name  now. 
It  was  a  hell  of  a  tough  county  that  —  then.  Th' 
devil  himself  'ud  ha'  bin  scairt  t'  start  up  in  bizness 
ther."  He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "But  I  tell  yu'  — 
when  Mr.  Man  let  up  with  his  fancy  shootin'  it  was 
th"  peaceablest  place  in  th'  Union.  Th'  rough  stuff'd 
drifted  —  what  was  left  above  ground.  He  dragged 
it  too,  later.  I  never  heered  wher  he  went." 

"Ah!"  remarked  Slavin  pityingly,  knocking  out  his 
pipe.  "Th'  few  shots  av  hootch  ye  had  tu  throw  inta 
yu'  last  night  tu  get  ye're  Dutch  up  must  be  makin' 
ye  see  double,  me  man.  If  th'  rough  stuff  he  run 
inta  there  was  on'y  th'  loikes  av  yersilf  he  must  have 


156     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

shtruck  a  soft  snap."  He  arose.  "Put  th'  stringers  on 
him  agin,  Ridmond,  an'  take  um  upstairs  an'  lock  um 
up !  Yu'll  be  escort  wid  um  tu  Calgary  whin  th'  East- 
bound  comes  in  —  an'  see  here,  look!  ...  I  want 
ye  tu  be  back  here  agin  as  soon  as  iver  ye  can  make 
ut  back.  Tchkk!"  he  clucked  fretfully,  "I  wish  this 
autopsy  an'  inquest  was  thru',  so's  we  cud  git  down 
tu  bizness.  Phew!  this  dive's  stuffy  —  let's  beat  ut 
out  a  bit!" 

Standing  on  the  sidewalk  they  gazed  casually  at 
the  slowly  approaching  figures  of  Inspector  Kilbride 
and  Mr.  Gully.  The  two  latter  appeared  to  be  en- 
gaged in  a  vehement,  though  guarded  conversation — • 
stopping  every  now  and  again,  as  if  to  debate  a  point. 

"Here  cometh  Moran's  'dep'ty  sheriff,'  "  was  Yorke's 
facetious  comment. 

"By  gum,  though!"  Redmond  ejaculated,  "the 
beggar  would  make  a  good  stage  marshal,  wouldn't 
he  ?  .  .  .  with  that  Bret  Harte,  forty-niner's  mous- 
tache and  undertaker's  mug,  and  top-boots  and  all, 
what?" 

"And  a  glittering  star  badge,"  supplemented  Yorke 
dramatically,  "don't  forget  that!  and  two  murderous-1 
looking  guns  slanted  across  his  hips  and  — " 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     157 

"Arrah,  thin!  shut  up,  Yorkey!"  hissed  the  sergeant 
in  a  warning  aside,  "they'll  hear  yez.  Here  they 
come." 

Presently  the  five  were  grouped  together.  In- 
spector Kilbride's  stern  features  were  set  in  a  thought- 
ful, lowering  scowl.  Mr.  Gully's  tanned,  leathery  coun- 
tenance looked  curiously  mottled. 

"Sergeant!"  The  inspector  clicked  off  his  words 
sharply.  "This  is  a  bad  case.  We've  just  been  view- 
ing the  body  —  Mr.  Gully  and  I."  With  mechanical 
caution  he  glanced  swiftly  round.  "Let's  get  inside 
and  go  over  things  again,"  he  added. 

Seated  in  the  privacy  of  the  hotel  parlour  the  crime 
was  discussed  from  every  angle  with  callous,  profes- 
sional interest.  K-ilbride  and  Slavin  did  most  of  the 
talking,  though  occasionally  Gully  interpolated  with 
question  and  comment.  He  possessed  a  deep,  booming 
bass  voice  well-suited  to  his  vast  frame.  His  speech, 
despite  a  slightly  languid  drawl,  was  unquestionably 
that  of  an  educated  Englishman.  Yorke  and  Redmond 
maintained  a  respectful  silence  in  the  presence  of  their 
officer,  except  to  answer  promptly  and  quietly  any 
questions  put  directly  to  them. 

Personal  revenge  they  decided  eventually  could  be 


158  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

the  only  motive.  Robbery  was  out  of  the  question,  as 
the  personal  belongings  of  the  dead  man  had  been 
found  to  be  intact,  including  a  valuable  diamond  ring, 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  bills,  and  his 
watch,  papers,  etc.  A  jovial,  light-hearted  young 
rancher,  hailing  originally  from  the  Old  Country,  a 
bachelor  of  more  or  less  convivial  habits,  he  had  en- 
joyed the  hearty  good-will  of  the  country-side,  in- 
curring the  enmity  of  no  one,  with  the  exception  of 
Moran,  as  far  as  they  knew.  The  latter's  alibi  having 
established  his  innocence  beyond  doubt,  no  definite 
clues  were  forthcoming  as  yet,  beyond  the  foot-prints, 
the  horse,  and  the  "Luger"  shell.  Moran,  too,  they 
ascertained  had  ridden  in  alone,  and  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  chumming  with  anyone  in  particular.  Slavin 
had  prepared  a  list  of  all  known  out-going  and  in- 
coming individuals  on  and  about  the  date  of  the  crime. 
This  was  carefully  conned  over.  All  were,  without 
exception,  well-known  respectable  ranchers,  and  citi- 
zens of  Cow  Run,  to  whom  no  suspicion  could  be 
attached. 

"No!"  commented  the  inspector  wearily,  at  length. 
"In  my  opinion  this  has  been  done  by  someone  living 
right  here  in  this  burg  —  a  man  whom  we  could  go  and 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     159 

put  our  hands  on  this  very  minute  —  if  we  only  had 
something  to  work  on.  You'll  see  .  .  .  it'll  turn 
out  to  be  that  later.  Just  about  the  last  man  you'd 
suspect,  either.  Cases  like  this  —  where  the  individual 
has  nerve  enough  to  stay  right  on  the  job  and  go  about 
his  business  as  usual  —  are  often  the  hardest  nuts  to 
crack.  You  remember  that  Huggard  case,  Sergeant?" 

Many  years  previous  he  and  Slavin  had  been  non- 
coms  together  in  the  Yukon,  and  other  divisions  of 
the  Force,  and  now,  delving  back  into  their  memories 
of  crime  and  criminals,  they  cited  many  old  and  grim 
cases,  more  or  less  similar  to  the  one  in  hand.  Yorke 
and  Redmond  listened  eagerly  to  their  narration,  but 
Gully  betrayed  only  a  sort  of  taciturn  interest.  If 
he  had  any  experiences  of  his  own,  he  apparently  did 
not  consider  it  worth  while  to  contribute  them  just 
then;  though  to  Slavin  and  Yorke  he  was  known  to 
be  a  man  who  had  travelled  far  and  wide. 

"Ah!"  remarked  the  inspector,  a  trifle  bitterly.  "If 
only  some  of  these  smart  individuals  who  write  fool 
detective  stories,  with  their  utterly  impracticable 
methods,  theories,  and  deductions,  were  to  climb  out 
of  their  arm-chairs  and  tackle  the  real  thing  —  had  to 
do  it  for  their  living  —  they'd  make  a  pretty  ghastly 


160  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

mess  of  things  I'm  thinking.  It  all  looks  so  mighty 
easy  —  in  a  book.  You  can  see  exactly  how  the  thing 
happened,  put  your  hand  on  the  man  who  did  it,  and 
all  that,  right  from  the  start.  And  you  begin  to 
wonder,  pityingly,  why  the  police  were  such  fools  as 
not  to  have  seen  through  everything  right  away." 

He  paused  a  moment,  continuing:  "This  is  a  law- 
abiding  country.  Crimes  like  this  are  exceptional. 
We're  bound  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  sooner  or 
later.  When  we  do  —  there'll  be  quite  a  lot  of  things 
crop  up  in  our  minds  that  we'll  be  wondering  we  never 
thought  of  before.  Let  me  have  another  look  at  that 
paper  imprint  of  that  over-shoe,  Sergeant!" 

Silently,  Slavin  handed  it  over.  Kilbride  scruti- 
nized it  carefully,  and  again  went  over  all  notes  and 
figures  connected  with  the  crime.  "Must  have  been  a 
tall  man  —  possibly  six  feet,  or  over,  from  the  length 
of  the  stride/'  he  muttered,  "and  heavy,  from  the 
depth  of  the  imprint."  He  noted  the  distance  from  the 
big  boulder  to  where  the  body  had  first  fallen.  "Gad! 
what  shooting!  .  .  .  The  man  must  have  been  a  holy 
fright  with  a  revolver  —  to  have  confidence  in  himself 
to  be  able  to  kill  at  that  range.  I've  never  known  any- 
thing like  it.  Well!  .  .  .  One  sure  thing'*  —  he  laughed 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     161 

grimly  —  "you  can't  go  searching  every  decent 
citizen  here  for  a  Luger  gun,  or  demanding  to  measure 
his  feet  —  without  reasonable  suspicion.  Why!  It 
might  be  you,  Sergeant  —  or  Mr.  Gully,  here  .  .  . 
you're  both  big  men.  .  .  ." 

Long  afterwards,  well  they  remembered  the  inspec-  > 
tor's  random  jest  —  how  Gully,  with  one  hand  slid  into 
his  breast,  and  the  other  dragging  at  his  great  drooping 
moustache  (mannerisms  of  his)  had  joined  in  the  gen- 
eral laugh  with  his  hollow,  guttural  "Ha!  ha!" 

The  inspector's  levity  suddenly  vanished.  "That 
old  fool  of  a  livery-stable  keeper,  Lee,  or  whatever  his 
name  is  ...  if  only  he,  or  someone  had  been  around 

when  the  horse  was  brought  back  that  night!    D n 

it!  there  must  have  been  somebody  around,  surely. 
That's  what  this  case  hinges  on." 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Well!  Work  on  that  — 
to  your  utmost,  Sergeant.  Stay  right  with  it  until  you 
get  that  evidence.  You'll  drop  onto  your  man  sooner  or 
later,  I  know.  That  train  should  be  in  soon,  now.  I'll 
have  to  get  back.  The  Commissioner's  due  from 
Regina,  sometime  today,  and  I've  got  to  be  on  hand. 
Wire  the  finding  of  the  inquest  as  soon  as  it's  over, 
and  send  in  a  full  crime-report  of  everything!" 


162  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

He  glanced  casually  at  the  bruised  faces  of  Yorke 
and  Redmond.  "You  men  must  have  had  quite  a  tussle 
with  that  fellow,  Moran!"  he  remarked  whimsically. 
"You  seem  to  have  come  off  the  best,  Sergeant.  You're 
not  marked  at  all." 

"Some  tussle  all  right,  Sorr!"  agreed  that  worthy 
evenly,  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  "Yu'  go  git  yu're 
prisoner,  Ridmond,  an'  be  ready  whin  that  thrain 
comes  in.  Come  back  on  the  next  way-freight  west, 
if  there's  wan  behfure  th'  passenger.  We'll  need  yez." 

Gully  murmured  some  hospitable  suggestion  to 
Kilbride,  and  the  two  gentlemen  strolled  into  the 
wrecked  bar.  The  train  presently  arrived  and  de- 
parted eastwards,  bearing  on  it  the  inspector,  Red- 
mond, and  his  prisoner. 

"Strange  thing,"  the  officer  had  remarked  musingly 
to  Slavin,  just  prior  to  his  departure,  "I  seem  to  know 
that  man  Gully's  face,  but  somehow  I  can't  place  him. 
He  introduced  himself  to  me  on  the  train  coming  up. 
Of  course  I'm  familiar  with  his  name,  as  the  J.P.  here, 
but  I  can't  recall  ever  meeting  him  before." 

Sometime  later,  Slavin  and  Yorke,  who  had  just 
returned  from  the  gruesome  autopsy  and  were  busily 
making  arrangements  for  the  afternoon's  inquest, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     163 

heard  a  loud,  cackling  commotion  out  in  the  main 
street.  They  immediately  stepped  outside  the  hotel 
to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Advancing  towards  them,  and  puffing  with  exertion 
and  importance,  they  beheld  Nick  Lee,  haling  along 
at  arm's  length  an  unkempt  individual  whom  they 
judged  to  be  the  hobo  who  had  disturbed  his  peace  of 
mind.  A  small  retinue  of  dirty  urchins,  jeering  loafers, 
and  barking  dogs  brought  up  the  rear.  The  village 
"Dogberry"  drew  nigh  with  his  victim  and  halted,  as 
empurpled  as  probably  the  elder  Weller  was,  after 
ducking  Mr.  Stiggins  in  the  horse-trough. 

"Sarjint!"  he  panted  triumphantly  "I  did  clim  up 
that  ther  ladder!  I  did  git  thru'  th'  trap-door!  .  .  . 
an'  —  I  did  ketch  that  feller!"  Suddenly  his  jaw 
dropped,  and  he  wilted  like  a  pricked  bladder.  "Why! 
what's  up?"  he  queried  with  a  crestfallen  air,  as  he  be- 
held Slavin's  angry,  worried  countenance. 

"Damnation!"  muttered  the  latter  softly  and 
savagely  to  Yorke.  "This  means  another  thrip  tu 
Calgary  —  wid  this  'bo'  —  an'  me  not  able  tu  shpare 
ye  just  now.  Fwhat  wid  all  this  other  bizness  I'd 
forgotten  all  'bout  him.  An'  we'd  vagged  him  sooner 
Ridmond  might  have  taken  th'  tu  av  thim  down  tu- 


1 64    THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

gither.  Da ."  The  oath  died  on  his.  lips  and  he 

remained  staring  at  the  hobo  as  a  sudden  thought  struck 
him.  His  gaze  flickered  to  Yorke's  face,  and  his  subor- 
dinate nodded  comprehensively. 

Slavin  beckoned  to  Lee.  "Take  um  inside  the  hotel 
parlour,  Nick,"  he  ordered,  "fwhere  we  hild  coort  this 
mornin.'  Yorkey,  yu'  go  an'  hunt  up  Mr.  Gully.  I 
don't  think  he's  pulled  out  yet,  has  he,  Nick?"  He 
spoke  now  with  a  certain  grim  eagerness. 

The  livery-man  made  a  gesture  in  the  negative,  and 
Yorke  departed  upon  his  quest.  Slavin  ushered  Lee 
and  the  hobo  into  the  room.  To  the  sergeant's  surprise 
he  beheld  the  justice  sitting  at  the  table  writing.  He 
concluded  that  that  gentlman  must  have  just  stepped  hi 
from  the  rear  entrance  of  the  hotel,  or  the  bar,  during 
his  own  and  Yorke's  temporary  absence. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  trio  Gully  raised  his  head  and, 
with  the  pen  poised  in  his  fingers,  sat  perfectly  motion- 
less, staring  at  them  strangely  out  of  his  shadowy  eyes. 
His  face  seemed  transformed  into  a  blank,  expression- 
less mask.  The  sergeant  leaned  over  the  table  and 
spoke  to  him  in  a  rapid  aside. 

"Ah!"  murmured  Mr.  Gully,  and  he  remained  for 
a  space  in  deep  thought.  "Sergeant,"  he  began  pres- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     165 

ently,  "I'll  have  to  be  pulling  out  soon.  Before  we 
start  in  with  this  man  .  .  .  will  you  kindly  step 
down  to  Doctor  Cox's  with  these  papers  and  ask  him 
to  sign  them?" 

It  seemed  an  ordinary  request.  Slavin  complied. 
Returning  some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  later  he  noticed 
Lee  was  absent.  The  magistrate  answered  his  query. 
"Sent  him  round  to  throw  the  harness  on  my  team," 
he  drawled,  as  he  pored  over  a  Criminal  Code,  "he'll 
be  back  in  a  moment  —  ah!  here  he  is."  And  just 
then  the  latter  entered,  along  with  Yorke.  The  hobo 
was  sitting  slumped  in  a  chair,  as  Slavin  had  left  him. 
With  one  accord  they  all  centred  their  gaze  upon  the 
unkempt  delinquent.  Ragged  and  unwashed,  he  pre- 
sented a  decidedly  unlovely  appearance,  which  was 
heightened  by  his  stubble-coated  visage  showing  signs 
as  of  recent  ill-usage.  His  age  might  have  been  any- 
thing between  thirty  and  forty. 

The  sergeant,  a  huge,  menacing  figure  of  a  man, 
stepped  forward  and  motioned  to  him  to  stand. 
"Now,  see  here;  look,  me  man!"  he  said  slowly  and 
distinctly,  a  sort  of  tense  eagerness  underlying  his 
soft  tones,  "behfure  I  shtart  in  charrgin'  ye  wid  any- 
thin'  I'm  goin'  tu  put  a  few  questions  tu  ye  in  front 


1 66    THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

av  this  ginthleman"  —  he  indicated  the  justice  — 
"He's  a  mag'strate,  so  ye'd  best  tell  th'  trute.  Now  — 
th'  night  behfure  last  —  betune  say,  nine  an'  twelve 
o'clock  .  .  .  fwhere  was  ye?"  —  he  paused — • 
"Think  harrd,  an'  come  across  wid  th'  straight  goods." 

A  tense  silence  succeeded.  The  hobo,  the  cynosure 
of  a  ring  of  watchful  expectant  faces,  mumbled  indis- 
tinctly, "I  was  sleepin'  —  up  in  th'  loft  o'  th'  livery- 
stable." 

"Did  yeh  — "  Slavin  eyed  the  man  keenly  —  "did 
yeh  see  —  or  hear  —  any  fella  take  a  harse  out  av 
th'  sh table  durin'  that  time?" 

Gully  moved  slightly.  With  the  mannerism  he  af- 
fected, his  left  hand  dragging  at  his  moustache  and 
his  right  slid  between  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  he  leaned 
forward  and  fixed  his  eyes  full  upon  the  hobo's  bat- 
tered visage. 

Meeting  that  strange,  compelling  gaze  the  latter 
stared  back  at  him,  his  face  an  ugly,  expressionless 
mask.  He  shuffled  with  his  feet.  "Why,  yes!"  he 
said  finally,  "I  did  heer  a  bunch  o'  fellers  come  in. 
They  was  a-talkin'  all  excited-like  'bout  a  fight,  or 
sumphin'.  They  was  a-hollerin',  'Beat  it,  Larry!  beat 
it!'  t'  somewun,  an'  I  heered  some  feller  say:  'All 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     167 

right!  give  us  my saddle!'  an'  then  it  sounded 

like  as  if  a  horse  was  bein'  taken  out.  I  didn't  heer 
no  more  after  that  —  went  t'  sleep.  I  'member 
comin'  down  'bout  th'  middle  o'  th'  night  t'  git  a  drink 
at  th'  trough.  This  feller  come  in  then,"  —  he  indi- 
cated Lee.  "He  hollered  sumphin'  an'  started  in  t* 
chase  me  .  .  .  so  I  beat  it  up  inta  th'  loft  agin'." 
He  shivered.  "  'T'was  cold  up  ther  —  I  well-nigh 
froze,"  he  whined. 

The  sergeant  exhausted  his  no  mean  powers  of  ex- 
hortation. It  was  all  in  vain.  The  hobo  protested 
that  he  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  anyone  else  taking 
out,  or  bringing  in,  a  horse  during  the  night. 

Slavin  finally  ceased  his  efforts  and  glowered  at  the 
man  in  silent  impotence.  "How  come  yez  tu  get  th' 
face  av  yez  bashed  up  so?"  he  demanded. 

"Fell  thru'  one  o'  th'  feed-holes  up  in  th'  loft,"  was 
the  sulky  response. 

"Fwhat  name  du  ye  thravel  undher?" 

"Dick  Drinkwater." 

"Eh?"  the  sergeant  glanced  critically  at  the  red, 
bulbous  nose.  "Fwhat's  in  a  name?"  he  murmured. 
"Eyah!  f what's  in  a  name?" 

Glibly    the    tramp    commenced    an    impassioned 


i68  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

harangue,  dwelling  upon  the  hardness  of  life  in  gen- 
eral, snuffling  and  whining  after  the  manner  of  his 
kind.  How  could  a  crippled-up  man  like  him  obtain 
work?  He  thrust  out  a  grimy  right  hand  —  minus 
two  ringers.  He  had  been  a  sawyer,  he  averred. 

Slavin  sniffed  suspiciously.  "Ye  shtink  av  whiskey, 
fella!"  he  said  sharply.  "That  nose,  yeh  name,  an' 
a  hard-luck  spiel  du  not  go  well  together.  Fwhere  did 
yu'  get  yu're  dhrink?" 

The  hobo  was  silent.  "Come  across,"  said  Slavin 
sternly,  "f where  did  ye  get  ut?" 

"I  had  a  bottle  with  me  when  I  come  off  th'  train," 
said  the  other,  "ther  was  a  drop  left  in  an'  I  had  it 
just  now." 

In  the  light  of  after  events,  well  did  Slavin  and 
Yorke  recall  the  furtive  appealing  glance  the  hobo 
threw  at  Gully;  well  did  they  also  remember  certain 
of  Kilbride's  words:  "There'll  be  quite  a  lot  of  things 
crop  up  in  our  minds  that  we'll  be  wondering  we 
never  thought  of  before." 

The  justice  cleared  his  throat.  "Sergeant"  came 
his  guttural,  booming  bass,  "suppose! — suppose!"  he 
reiterated  suavely  "on  this  occasion  we  —  er  —  temper 
justice  with  mercy  —  ha !  ha! "  His  deep  hollow  laugh 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     169 

jarred  on  their  nerves  most  unpleasantly.  "I  need  a 
man  at  my  place  just  now/'  he  went  on,  "to  buck 
wood  and  do  a  little  odd  choring  around.  Times  are 
rather  hard  just  now,  as  this  poor  fellow  says.  If  you 
insist  —  er  —  why,  of  course  I've  no  other  option  but 
to  send  him  down  .  .  .  you  understand?  I  would 
not  presume  to  dictate  to  you  your  duty.  On  the 
other  hand  ...  if  you  are  not  specially  anxious  to 
press  a  charge  of  vagrancy  against  this  man  I  —  er  — • 
am  willing  to  give  him  a  chance  to  obtain  this  work  — 
that  he  insists  he  is  so  anxious  to  find." 

Slavin's  face  cleared  and  he  emitted  a  weary  sigh 
of  relief.  "As  you  will,  yeh're  Worship,"  he  said. 
"T'will  be  helpin'  me  out,  tu  .  .  .  yeh  undhershtand?" 
His  meaning  stare  drew  a  comprehensive  nod  from 
Gully.  "I  have  not  a  man  tu  shpare  for  escort  just 
now." 

He  turned  to  the  hobo.  "Fwhat  say  yu',  me  man?" 
was  his  curt  ultimatum,  "Fwhat  say  yu'  —  tu  th'  kind- 
niss  av  his  Worship?  Will  yeh  go  wurrk  for  him?  .  .  . 
Or  be  charged  wid  vagrancy?" 

The  offer  was  accepted  with  alacrity.  In  the  hobo's 
one  uninjured  optic  shone  a  momentary  gleam  of  in- 
telligence, as  he  continued  to  stare  at  Gully,  like  a  dog 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

at  its  master.  The  gleam  was  reflected  in  a  pair  of 
shadowy,  deep-set  eyes,  unblinking  as  an  owl's. 

Gully  arose  and  looked  at  Lee.  "All  right  then !  you 
can  hitch  up  my  team,  Nick!"  he  said,  and  that  rotund 
worthy  waddled  away  on  his  mission.  "Come  on,  my 
man"  he  continued  to  the  hobo,  "we'll  go  round  to  the 
stable."  He  turned  to  Slavin  and  Yorke,  shedding  his 
magisterial  deportment.  "Well,  good-bye,  you 
fellows! "  he  said,  with  careless  bonhomie.  He  lowered 
his  voice  in  an  aside  to  Slavin.  "Sergeant,  I  trust  I 
shall  see,  or  hear  from  you  again  shortly.  I  would 
like  to  hear  the  result  of  the  inquest  and  —  er  —  how 
you  are  progressing  with  the  case." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  heard  the  silvery  jingle  of 
his  cutter's  bells  gradually  dying  away  in  the  distance. 
Slavin  aroused  himself  from  a  scowling,  brooding 

reverie.  "G d  d n!"  he  spat  out  to  Yorke,  from 

between  clenched  teeth,  "ther'  goes  another  forlorn 
hope.  'Tis  no  manner  av  use  worryin'  tho'  —  let's  go 
get  that  jury  empannelled!"  He  uttered  a  snorting 
chuckle  as  a  thought  seemed  to  strike  him.  "H-mm! 
Gully  must  be  getthin'  tindher-hearthed !  Th'  last 
vag  we  had  up  behfure  him  he  sint  um  down  for  sixty 
days." 


CHAPTER   IX 

Take  order  now,  Gehazi, 

That  no  man  talk  aside 
In  secret  with  his  judges 

The  while  his  case  is  tried, 
Lest  he  should  show  them  —  reason 

To  keep  a  matter  hid, 
And  subtly  lead  the  questions 

Away  from  what  he  did. 

KIPLING. 

HULLO!"  quoth  Constable  Yorke  facetiously, 
"behold  one  cometh,  with  blood  in  her  eye! 
Egad!    Don't  old  gal  Lee  look  mad?    Like  a 
wet  hen.    I  guess  she's  just  off  the  train  and  Nick 
hasn't  met  her.    There'll  be  something  doing  when  she 
lands  home." 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  following  morning. 
The  three  policemen  (Redmond  had  returned  on  a 
freight  during  the  night)  were  standing  outside  the 
small  cottage,  next  the  livery-stable,  the  abode  of  Nick 
Lee  and  his  spouse.  After  a  casual  inspection  of  their 
horses  they  were  debating  as  to  possible  suspects  and 
their  next  course  of  action.  Yorke's  remarks  were 

171 


172  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

directed  at  a  stout,  red-faced,  middle-aged  woman  who 
was  just  then  approaching  them.  She  looked  flustered 
and  angry  and  was  burdened  down  with  parcels  great 
and  small.  As  she  halted  outside  the  gate  one  of  the 
packages  slipped  from  her  grasp  and  fell  in  the  mud. 
Unable  to  bend  down,  she  gazed  at  it  helplessly  a 
moment.  Yorke,  stepping  forward  promptly,  picked 
up  the  parcel,  wiped  it  and  tucked  it  under  her  huge 
arm. 

"Thank  ye,  Mister  Yorke,"  she  ejaculated  gratefully, 
"  'tis  a  gentleman  ye  are,"  she  glowered  a  moment  at 
the  cottage,  "which  is  more'n  I  kin  say  fur  that  mon 
o'  mine,  th'  lazy  good-fur-nothin',  .  .  .  leavin'  me  t' 
pack  all  these  things  from  th'  train!" 

Like  a  tug  drawing  nigh  to  its  mooring  —  and  nearly 
as  broad  in  the  beam  —  she  came  to  anchor  on  the 
front  steps  and  kicked  savagely  at  the  door.  A  momen- 
tary glimpse  they  got  of  Nick  Lee's  face,  in  all  its 
rubicund  helplessness,  and  then  the  door  banged  to. 
From  an  open  window  soon  emerged  the  sounds  as  * 
of  a  domestic  broil. 

"Talk  av  Home  Rule,  an'  'Th'  Voice  that  breathed 
o'er  Eden',"  murmured  Slavin.  "Blarney  me  sowl! 
just  hark  tu  ut  now?" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     173 

From  the  cottage's  interior  came  several  high-pitched 
female  squawks,  punctuated  by  the  ominous  sounds  as 
of  violent  thumps  being  rained  upon  a  soft  body,  and 
suddenly  the  portal  disgorged  Lee  —  in  erratic  haste. 
His  hat  presently  followed.  Dazedly  awhile  he  sur- 
veyed the  grinning  trio  of  witnesses  to  his  discomfiture; 
then,  picking  up  his  battered  head-piece  he  crammed 
it  down  upon  his  bald  cranium  with  a  vicious,  yet 
abject,  gesture. 

"Th'  missis  seems  onwell  this  mornin',"  he  mumbled 
apologetically  to  Slavin,  "I  take  it  yore  not  a  married 
man,  Sarjint?" 

"Eh?"  ejaculated  that  worthy  sharply,  his  levity 
gone  on  the  instant.  "Who  —  me?"  Blankly  he  re- 
garded the  miserable  face  of  his  interlocutor,  one  huge 
paw  of  a  hand  softly  and  surreptitiously  caressing  its 
fellow,  "Nay  —  glory  be!  I  am  not." 

"Har!"  shrilled  the  Voice,  its  owner,  fat  red  arms 
akimbo,  blocking  up  the  doorway,  "Nick,  me  useless 
man!  ye  kin  prate  t'  me  'bout  arrestin'  hoboes.  I  tell 
ye  right  now  —  that  hobo  that  was  a-bummin'  roun' 
here  t'other  mornin's  got  nothin'  on  you  fur  sheer, 
blowed-in-th'-glass  laziness." 

"Fwhat?"    Slavin  violently  contorting  his  grim  face 


174  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

into  a  horrible  semblance  of  persuasive  gallantry  edged 
cautiously  towards  the  irate  dame  —  much  the  same 
as  a  rough-rider  will  "So,  ho,  now!"  and  sidle  up  to 
a  bad  horse.  "Mishtress  Lee,"  began  he,  in  wheedling, 
dulcet  tones,  "fwhat  mornin'  was  that?" 

That  lady,  her  capacious,  matronly  bosom  heaving 
with  emotion,  eyed  him  suspiciously  a  moment.  "Eh?" 
she  snapped.  "Why  th'  mornin'  after  th'  night  of 
racket  between  them  two  men  at  th'  hotel.  Th'  feller 
come  bummin'  roun'  th'  back-door  fur  a  hand-out  —  all 
starved  t'  death  —  just  before  I  took  th'  train  t'  Cal- 
gary." She  dabbed  at  the  false-front  of  red  hair,  which 
had  become  somewhat  disarranged.  "La,  la!"  she 
murmured,  "I'm  all  of  a  twitter!" 

"Some  hand-out  tu,"  remarked  Slavin  politely,  "from 
th'  face  av  um.  .  .  .  Fwhat  was  ut  ye  handed  him, 
Mishtress  Lee,  might  I  ask?  —  th'  flat-iron  or  th' 
rollin'  pin?" 

"I  did  not!"  the  dame  retorted  indignantly.  "I  gave 
him  a  cup  of  coffee  an'  sumphin'  t'  eat  —  he  was  that 
cold,  poor  feller  —  an'  I  arst  him  how  his  face  come  t' 
be  in  such  a  state.  He  said  sumphin  'bout  it  bein'  so 
cold  up  in  th'  loft  he  come  down  amongst  th'  horses 
'bout  midnight  —  t'  get  warmed  up.  He  said  he  was 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     175 

Jyin'  in  one  o'  th'  mangers  asleep  when  a  feller  brought 
a  horse  in  —  an'  th'  light  woke  him  up  an'  when  he 
went  t'  climm  outa  th'  manger  th'  horse  got  scared  an' 
pulled  back  an'  musta  stepped  on  this  feller's  foot  — 
fur  th'  feller  started  swearin'  at  him  an'  pulled  him 
outa  th'  manger  an'  beat  him  up  an'  —  " 

But  Slavin  had  heard  enough.  With  a  most  un- 
gallant  ejaculation  he  swung  on  his  heel  and  started 
towards  the  stable,  beckoning  hastily  to  Yorke  and 
Redmond  to  follow. 

"Yu  hear  that?"  he  burst  out  on  them,  with  lowered, 
savage  tones.  "I  knew  ut  —  I  felt  ut  at  th'  toime  — 
that  shtinkin'  rapparee  av  a  hobo  was  lyin'  —  whin  he 
said  he  did  not  remimber  a  harse  bein'  brought  back. 
We  must  go  get  um  —  right-away!"  His  grim  face 
wore  a  terribly  ruthless  expression  just  then.  "My 
God!"  he  groaned  out  from  between  clenched  teeth, 
"but  I  will  put  th'  third  degree  tu  um,  an'  make  um 
come  across  this  toime!  Saddle  up,  bhoys!  while  I  go 
an'  hitch  up  T  an'  B.  Damnation!  I  wish  Gully's  place 
was  on  the  phone!" 

Some  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  were  proceeding 
rapidly  towards  Gully's  ranch  which  lay  some  fifteen 
miles  west  of  Cow  Run,  on  the  lower  or  river  traiL 


176  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

A  cold  wind  had  sprung  up  and  the  weather  had  turned 
cloudy  and  dull,  as  if  presaging  snow,  two  iridescent 
"sun-dogs"  indicating  a  forthcoming  drop  in  the  tem- 
perature. 

Yorke  and  Redmond,  riding  in  the  cutter's  wake, 
carried  on  a  desultory,  jerky  conversation  anent  the 
many  baffling  aspects  of  the  case  in  hand.  Gully's 
name  came  up.  His  strange  personality  was  discussed 
by  them  from  every  angle;  impartially  by  Yorke  — 
frankly  antagonistically  by  Redmond. 

"Yes!  he  is  a  rum  beggar,  in  a  way,"  admitted  Yorke, 
"not  a  bad  sort  of  duck,  though,  when  you  get  to  know 
him —  when  he's  not  in  one  of  his  rotten,  brooding 
fits.  He  sure  gets  'Charley-on-his-back'  sometimes. 
Used  to  hit  the  booze  pretty  hard  one  time,  they  say. 
Tried  the  'gold-cure'  —  then  broke  out  again"  •  —  he 
lowered  his  voice  at  the  huge,  bear-like  back  of  the 
sergeant  —  "all  same  him.  I  don't  know  —  somehow 
—  it  always  seems  to  leave  em'  cranky  an'  queer  — 
that.  Neither  of  'em  married  either  —  'baching  it,' 
living  alone,  year  after  year,  and  all  that,  too." 

"Better  for  you  —  if  you  took  the  cure,  too! "  George 
flung  at  him  grinning  rudely.  He  neck-reined  Fox 
sharply  and  dodged  a  playful  punch  from  his  comrade. 


[THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     177 

"Yorkey,  old  cock,  I'm  goin'  to  break  you  from  'hard 
stuff'  to  beer  —  if  I  have  to  pitch  into  you  every 
day." 

"You're  an  insulting  bullyin'  young  beggar,"  re- 
marked Yorke  ruefully.  "I'll  have  to  'take  shteps,'  as 
Burke  says,  and  discipline  you  a  bit,  young  fellow-me- 
lad!  I  don't  wonder  the  old  man  pulled  you  in  from 
Gleichen.  Come  to  think  of  it,  why,  you're  the  bright 
boy  that  they  say  well-nigh  started  a  mutiny  down 
Regina!  We  heard  a  rumour  about  it  up  here.  Say, 
what  was  that  mix-up,  Reddy?" 

George  chuckled  vaingloriously.  "All  over  old 
^Laddie',"  he  said.  "  'Member  that  white  horse?  I  for- 
get his  regimental  number,  but  he  was  about  twenty-five 
years  old.  You  remember  how  they'd  taught  him  to 
chuck  up  his  head  and  'laugh'?  I  was  grooming  him 
at  'midday  stables/  Old  Harry  Hawker  was  the  ser- 
geant taking  'stables'  that  day.  He  was  stalking  up 
and  down  the  gangway,  blind  as  a  bat,  with  his  crop 
under  his  arm,  and  his  glasses  stuck  on  the  end  of  his 
nose  —  peering,  peering.  Well,  old  Laddie  happened 
to  stretch  himself,  as  a  horse  will,  you  know,  stuck 
out  his  hind  leg,  and  old  Harry  fell  wallop  over  it 
and  tore  his  riding-pants,  and  just  then  I  said  'Laugh, 


178  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Laddie!'  and  he  chucked  his  old  head  up  and  wrinkled 
his  lips  back.  Of  course  the  fellows  fairly  howled 
and  Harry  lost  his  temper  and  let  in  to  poor  old 
Laddie  with  his  crop.  It  made  me  mad  when  he 
started  that  and  I  guess  I  gave  him  some  lip  about 
it.  He  'pegged'  me  for  Orderly-room  right-away  for 
'insubordination.' 

"I  pleaded  'not  guilty'  and  got  away  with  it,  too. 
Got  all  kinds  of  witnesses  —  most  of  'em  only  too 

d d  glad  to  be  able  to  get  back  at  Harry  for  little 

things.  Laddie  was  a  proper  pet  of  the  Commis- 
sioner's. He  used  to  go  into  No.  Four  Stable  and 
play  with  the  old  beggar  and  feed  him  sugar  nearly 
every  day." 

Yorke  laughed  mischievously,  and  was  silent 
awhile.  "Gully's  knocked  about  a  deuce  of  a  lot,"  he 
resumed  presently.  "Now  and  again  he'll  open  up  a 
bit  and  talk,  but  mostly  he's  as  close  as  an  oyster  — 
and  the  way  he  can  drop  that  drawl  and  come  out 
'flat-footed'  with  the  straight  turkey  —  why,  it'd  sur- 
prise you!  You'd  think  he  was  an  out  and  out  West- 
erner, born  and  bred.  He's  a  mighty  good  man  on  a 
horse,  and  around  cattle  —  and  with  a  lariat.  I  don't 
know  where  the  beggar's  picked  it  up.  He  claims 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     179 

he's  only  been  in  this  country  five  years.  Talks  mostly 
about  the  Gold  Coast,  and  Shanghai,  and  the  Congo. 
A  proper  'Bully  Hayes'  of  a  man  he  was  there,  too, 
I'll  bet!  He  never  says  much  about  the  States,  though 
I  did  hear  him  talking  to  a  Southerner  once,  and 
begad,  it  was  funny!  You  could  hardly  tell  their 
accents  apart. 

"Oh,  he's  not  a  bad  chap  to  have  for  a  J.P.  It's 
mighty  hard  to  get  any  local  man  to  accept  a  J.P.'s 
commission,  anyway.  They're  most  of  'em  scared  of 
it  getting  them  in  bad  with  their  neighbours.  Gully  — 

he  doesn't  care  a  d n  for  any  of  'em,  though.  He'll 

sit  on  any  case.  It's  a  good  thing  to  have  a  man 
who's  absolutely  independent,  like  that.  I  sure  have 
known  some  spineless  rotters.  No,  we  might  have  a 
worse  J.P.  than  Gully." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  Redmond  thought- 
fully, "may  be  he's  all  right,  but,  somehow  .  .  .  the 
man's  a  kind  of  'Doctor  Fell'  to  me  —  has  been  — 
right  from  the  first  time  I  'mugged'  him.  Chances  are 
though,  that  it's  only  one  of  those  false  impressions 
a  fellow  gets.  What's  up?" 

Yorke,  shading  his  eyes  from  the  cutting  wind  was 
staring  ahead  down  the  long  vista  of  trail.  "Talk  of 


i8o  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

the  Devil!"  he  muttered,  "why!  here  the comes!" 

Aloud,  he  called  out  to  Slavin.  "Oh,  Burke!  here 
comes  Gully  —  riding  like  hell.  I  know  that  Silver 
horse  of  his." 

And,  far-off  as  yet,  but  rapidly  approaching  them 
at  a  gallop,  they  beheld  a  rider. 

"Sure  is  hittin'  th'  high  spots,"  remarked  the  ser- 
geant wonderingly,  "fwhat  th'  divil's  up  now?" 

Gradually  the  distance  lessened  between  them  and 
presently  Gully,  mounted  upon  a  splendid,  powerfully- 
built  gray,  checked  his  furious  pace  and  reined  in 
with  an  impatient  jerk,  a  few  lengths  from  the  police 
team.  Redmond  could  not  help  noticing  that  Gully, 
for  a  heavy  man,  possessed  a  singularly-perfect  seat 
£n  the  saddle,  riding  with  the  sure,  free,  unconscious 
grace  of  an  habitue  of  the  range.  He  was  roughly 
dressed  now,  in  overalls,  short  sheepskin  coat,  and 
"chaps." 

He  shouted  a  salutation  to  the  trio,  his  usually 
immobile  face  transformed  into  an  expression  of  scowl- 
ing anxiety.  "Hullo!"  he  boomed,  his  guttural  bass 
sounding  hoarse  with  passion,  "You  fellows  didn't 

meet  that  d d  hobo  on  the  trail,  I  suppose?  .  .  . 

I'm  looking  for  him  —  in  the  worst  way!" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     181 

He  flung  out  of  saddle  and  strode  alongside  the 
cutter.  "About  two  hours  ago  —  not  more,  I'll  swear 
>—  I  pulled  out  to  take  a  ride  around  the  cattle  —  like 
I  usually  do,  every  day.  I  left  the  beggar  busy 
enough,  bucking  fire-wood.  I  wasn't  away  much  over 
an  hour,  but  when  I  got  back  I  found  he'd  drifted  — 
couldn't  locate  him  anywhere. 

"Then  I  remembered  I'd  left  some  money  lying 
around  —  inside  the  drawer  of  a  bureau  in  my  bed- 
room —  'bout  a  hundred,  I  guess  —  in  one  of  these 
black-leather  bill-folders.  Sure  enough,  it's  gone,  too. 
Damnation!" 

He  leaned  up  against  the  cutter  and  mopped  his 
streaming  forehead.  "I  was  a  fool  to  ever  attempt 
to  help  a  man  like  that  out,"  he  concluded  bitterly. 
"It  serves  me  right!" 

"Well."  said  Slavin,  with  an  oath,  "th'  shtiff  cannot 
have  got  far-away  in  that  toime.  I  want  um  as  bad 
as  yuh,  Mr.  Gully.  We  were  on  th'  way  tu  yu're 
place  for  um.  See  here;  luk!" 

Gully  heard  him  out  and  whistled  softly  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  narrative.  "Once  collar  this  man,  Ser- 
geant," said  he,  "and  —  you've  practically  got  your 
case.  Make  him  talk?"  —  the  low,  guttural  laugh  was 


i82  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

not  good  to  hear  —  "Oh,  yes!  ...  I  think  between  us 
we  could  accomplish  that  all  right!  .  .  .  Yes-s!" 

His  voice  died  away  in  a  murmur,  a  cruel  glint 
flickered  in  his  shadowy  eyes,  and  for  a  space  he  re- 
mained with  folded  arms  and  his  head  sunk  in  a  sort 
of  brooding  reverie.  Suddenly,  with  an  effort,  he 
seemed  to  arouse  himself.  "Oh,  about  that  inquest, 
Sergeant,"  he  queried  casually,  "what  was  the  jury's 
finding?  I  was  forgetting  all  about  that." 

"Eyah;  on'y  fwhat  yuh  might  expect,"  replied  the 
latter.  "Death  by  shootin',  at  th'  hand  av  some  person 
unknown.  I  wired  headquarthers  right-away."  He 
made  a  slightly  impatient  movement.  "Well,  we  must 
get  busy,  Mr.  Gully;  this  shtiff  connot  be  far  away. 
Not  bein'  on  th'  thrail,  betune  us  an'  yu',  means  he's 
either  beat  ut  shtraight  south  from  yu're  place  an'  over 
th'  ice  tu  th'  railway-thrack,  or  west  a  piece,  an'  thin 
onto  th'  thrack.  Yu'll  niver  find-  a  hobo  far  away  from 
th'  line.  He'd  niver  go  thrapsein'  thru'  th'  snow  tu  th' 
high  ground  beyant.  Yuh  cud  shpot  him  plain  for 
miles  —  doin'  that  —  comin'  along." 

"He's  wearing  old,  worn-out  boots,"  said  Yorke^ 
"got  awful  big  feet,  too,  I  remember.  Of  course  this 
trail's  too  beaten  up  from  end  to  end  to  be  able  to  get 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     183 

a  line  on  foot-prints.  We  might  work  slowly  back  to 
your  place,  though,  Mr.  Gully,  and  keep  a  lookout  for 
any  place  where  he  may  have  struck  south  off  the  trail, 
as  the  Sergeant  says." 

It  seemed  the  only  thing  to  do.  The  party  moved 
leisurely  forward,  Gully  riding  ahead  of  the  cutter, 
Yorke  and  Redmond  in  its  wake,  as  before,  well-spread 
out  on  either  side  of  the  well-worn  trail.  Here,  the 
snow  was  practically  undisturbed,  affording  them  every 
opportunity  of  discovering  fresh  foot-prints  debouching 
from  the  main  trail.  It  was  rather  exacting,  monoto- 
nous work,  necessitating  cautious  and  leisurely  prog- 
ress; but  they  stuck  to  it  doggedly  until  sometime 
later  they  rounded  a  bend  in  the  river  and  came  within 
sight  of  Gully's  ranch,  about  a  mile  distant. 

Presently  that  gentleman  pulled  up  and  swung  out 
of  saddle.  "Half  a  minute,"  he  said,  "my  saddle's 
slipping!  I  want  to  tighten  my  cinch." 

The  small  cavalcade  halted.  Slavin's  restless  eyes 
roving  over  the  expanse  of  unbroken  snow  on  his  left 
hand,  suddenly  dilated,  and  he  uttered  an  eager  ex- 
clamation, pointing  downwards  with  outflung  arm. 

"Ah,"  said  he  grimly,  "here  we  are,  I'm  thinkin'!" 
And  he  clambered  hastily  out  of  the  cutter. 


i84  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Yorke  and  Redmond,  dismounting  swiftly,  stepped 
forward  with  him  and  examined  minutely  the  unmis- 
takably fresh  imprints  of  large-sized  feet  angling  off 
from  the  trail  towards  the  bank  of  the  frozen  river. 

"Hob-nailed  boots!"  ejaculated  Yorke.  "Guess  that 
must  be  him,  all  right,  Mr.  Gully?" 

The  latter  bent  and  scrutinized  the  imprints.  "Sure 
must  be,"  he  rejoined,  with  conviction.  "A  man  walk- 
ing out  on  the  range  is  a  curiosity.  I  can't  think  how 
I  could  have  missed  them  —  coming  along.  But  I 
guess  I  was  so  mad,  and  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry  I 
didn't  notice  much.  I  made  sure  of  catching  up  to  him 
somewhere  on  the  trail." 

Slavin  beckoned  to  Redmond  and,  much  to  that 
young  gentleman's  chagrin,  bade  him  hold  the  lines 
of  the  restless  team,  while  he  (Slavin),  along  with 
Yorke  and  Gully,  started  forwards  trailing  the  foot- 
prints. Arriving  at  the  river's  edge  they  slid  down  the 
bank  and  followed  the  tracks  over  the  snow-covered 
ice  to  the  centre  of  the  river.  Here  was  open  water 
for  some  distance,  the  powerful  current  at  this  point 
keeping  open  a  ten-foot  wide  steaming  fissure.  The 
tracks  hugged  its  edge  to  a  point  about  four  hundred 
yards  westward,  where  the  fissure  closed  up  again  and 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     185 

enabled  them  to  cross  to  the  opposite  bank.  Clamber- 
ing up  this  their  quest  led  them  across  a  long  stretch 
of  comparatively  level  ground  to  the  fenced-in  rail- 
way-track. 

Ducking  under  the  lower  strand  of  wire  they  reached 
the  line.  At  the  foot  of  the  graded  road-bed,  Slavin, 
who  was  ahead,  halted  suddenly  and  uttered  an  oath. 
Stooping  down  he  picked  up  something  and,  turning 
round  to  his  companions  exhibited  his  find.  It  was  a 
small,  black-leather  bill-folder  —  empty. 

Gully  regarded  his  lost  property  with  smouldering 
eyes,  and  he  uttered  a  ghastly  imprecation.  "Yes, 
that's  it,"  he  said  simply,  "beggar's  boned  the  bills  and 
chucked  this  away  for  fear  of  incriminating  evidence 
i —  in  case  he  was  nabbed  again,  I  suppose.  The  bills 
were  mostly  in  fives  •  and  tens  —  Standard  Bank  —  I 
remember." 

They  climbed  up  onto  the  track  to  determine  whether 
the  foot-prints  turned  east  or  west;  but  further  quest 
here  proved  useless,  on  account  of  its  being  a  snow- 
beaten  section-hand  trail. 

Slavin  balked  again,  swore  in  fluent  and  horrible 
fashion.  For  a  space  he  remained  in  brooding  thought, 
then  he  turned  abruptly  to  his  companions. 


i86  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Come  on,"  he  jerked  out  savagely,  "let's  get  back." 

In  silence  they  retraced  their  steps  and  eventually 
reached  their  horses.  Here  the  sergeant  issued  curt 
orders  to  his  men. 

"  'Tis  onlikely  th'  shtiff  can  have  got  very  far 
away  —  in  th'  toime  Mr.  Gully  tells  us,"  he  said,  "an* 
he  cannot  shtay  out  in  th'  opin  for  long  this  weather. 
Get  yu're  harses  over  th'  ice,  bhoys,  an'  make  th' 
thrack.  Ye'll  find  an'  openin'  in  th'  fence  somewheres. 
Thin  shplit,  an'  hug  th'  line  —  west,  yu',  Yorkey  —  as 
far  as  Coalmore  —  yu',  Ridmond  —  back  tu  Cow  Run. 
Yez  know  fwhat  tu  du.  Pass  up  nothin' —  culverts, 
bridges,  section-huts  —  anywhere's  th'  shtiff  may  be 
hidin'.  If  yez  du  not  dhrop  onto  um  betune  thim  tu 
places  —  shtay  f where  yez  are  an'  search  all  freights. 
'Phone  th'  agent  at  Davidsburg  if  yez  want  tu  get 
me.  I'm  away  from  there  now  —  to  wire  east  an'  west. 
Thin  —  I'm  goin'  tu  ride  freight  awhile,  up  an'  down 
th'  thrack.  I  can  get  Clem  Wilson  tu  luk  afther  T 
an'  B.  We  must  get  this  man,  bhoys." 

"Look  here,  Sergeant,"  broke  in  Gully  good-na- 
turedly, "as  this  is  partly  on  my  account  I  feel  it's 
up  to  me  to  try  and  do  what  little  I  can  do  to  help 
you  in  this  case.  There's  not  much  doing  at  the  ranch 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     187 

just  now,  so,  if  you've  no  objection,  I'll  put  Silver 
along  with  your  team  and  come  with  you.  As  you 
say  —  we've  simply  got  to  get  this  fellow,  somehow." 

"Thank  ye,  Mr.  Gully,"  responded  Slavin  grate- 
fully, "betune  th'  bunch  av  us  we  shud  nail  th'  shtiff 
all  right." 

"Should!"  agreed  the  magistrate,  enigmatically, 
"  'stiff's'  the  word  for  him."  He  glanced  up  at  the 
lowering  sky.  "Hullo!  It's  beginning  to  snow  again 
: — you  found  those  tracks  just  in  time,  Sergeant." 

Six  days  elapsed.  Six  days  of  fruitless,  monotonous 
work.  The  evening  of  the  seventh  found  the  trio  dis- 
consolately reunited  in  their  detachment.  Their  quest 
had  failed.  Slavin,  not  sparing  himself,  had  w~" 
Yorke  and  Redmond  to  the  limits  of  their  endurance, 
and  they,  fully  realizing  the  importance  of  their  ob- 
jective, had  responded  loyally. 

Gully,  apparently  betraying  a  keen  interest  in  the 
case,  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  assist  them  —  both 
on  the  railroad  and  in  scouring  the  country-side.  They 
were  absolutely  and  utterly  played  out,  and  their 
nerves  were  jangled  and  snappy.  No  possible  hiding- 
place  had  been  overlooked  —  yet  the  hobo  —  Dick 


1 88     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Drinkwater  —  the  one  man  who  undoubtedly  held  the 
key  to  the  mysterious  murder  of  Larry  Blake  —  had 
disappeared  as  completely  as  if  the  earth  had  swal- 
lowed him  up. 

The  horses  cared  for,  and  supper  over,  Yorke  and 
Redmond  lay  back  on  their  cots  and  blague'd  each 
other  wearily  anent  their  mutual  ill-luck.  Slavin, 
critically  conning  over  a  lengthy  crime-report  on  the 
case  that  he  had  prepared  for  headquarters,  flung  his 
composition  on  the  table  and  leant  back  dejectedly 
in  his  chair. 

"Hoboes?"  quoth  he,  darkly,  and  tongue-clucked  in 
dismal  fashion.  "Eyah!  I  just  fancy  I  can  hear  th' 
ould  man  dishcoursin'  tu  Kilbride  av  th'  merry,  int'- 
restin*  ways  an'  habits  av  th'  genus  —  hobo  —  whin 
he  get's  this  report  av  mine.  .  .  .  Like  he  did  wan 
day  whin  he  was  doin'  show-man  round  th'  cells  wid 
a  bunch  av  ould  geezers  av  'humanytaruns.'  I  mind 
I  was  Actin'  Provo'  in  charge  av  th'  Gyard-room  at 
th'  toime." 

He  sighed  deeply,  folded  up  the  report  and  thrust 
it  into  an  official  envelope.  "Well,  bhoys,"  he  con- 
cluded, "we  have  done  all  that  men  can  —  for  th' 
toime  bein'  anyways." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     189 

Yorke  laughed  somewhat  mirthlessly  and  gazed 
dreamily  up  at  his  pictures.  "Sure  have,"  he  agreed 
languidly;  "from  now  on,  though,  I  guess  we'll  just 
have  to  take  a  leaf  out  of  Micawber's  book  —  'wait 
for  something  to  turn  up,'  eh,  Reddy,  my  old  son?" 

There  was  no  answer.  That  young  worthy,  utterly 
exhausted,  had  drifted  into  the  arms  of  Morpheus. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 

Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 

Of  him  that  makes  it. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

NUMBER  SIX,  from  the  East,  drew  up  at  the 
small  platform  of  Davidsburg  and  presently 
steamed  slowly  on  its  way  westward,  minus 
three  passengers. 

"Well,  bhoys,"  said  Sergeant  Slavin  to  his  hench- 
men, "here  we  are  —  back  tu  th'  land  av  our  dhreams 
wanst  more.  Glory  be!  But  I'm  glad  tu  be  quit  av 
that  warrm,  shtinkin'  courthroom.  Denis  Ryan  —  th' 
ould  rapparee,  he  wint  afther  us  harrd  —  in  that  last 
case.  Eyah!  But  I  thrimmed  um  in  th'  finals.  Wan 
Oirishman  cannot  put  ut  over  another  wan." 

He  softly  rubbed  his  huge  hands  together.  "Five 
years!  That'll  tache  Mishter  Joe  Lawrence  tu  go 
shtickin'  his  brand  on  other  people's  cattle!  But  — 
blarney  me  sowl!  Ryan  sure  is  a  bad  man  tu  run 
up  agin  when  he's  actin'  for  th'  defence." 

190 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     191 

The  trio  had  just  returned  from  a  Supreme  Court 
sitting  where  they  had  been  handling  their  various 
cases.  It  was  a  gloriously  sunny  day  in  June.  A  wet 
spring,  succeeded  by  a  spell  of  hot  weather,  had  trans- 
formed the  range  into  a  rolling  expanse  of  green,  over 
which  meandered  bunches  of  horses  and  cattle,  their 
sleek  hides  and  well-rounded  bodies  proclaiming  abun- 
dant assimilation  of  nourishing  pasture. 

To  men  who  for  the  past  week  had  of  necessity 
been  confined  within  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  a 
crowded  court-room,  their  present  surroundings  ap- 
pealed as  especially  restful  and  exhilarating.  During 
their  absence  their  horses  had  been  enjoying  the 
luxury  of  a  turn-out  in  the  fenced  pasture  at  the  rear 
of  the  detachment,  where  there  was  good  feed  and  a 
spring. 

The  murder  of  Larry  Blake  the  previous  winter  still 
remained  a  baffling  mystery.  Locally  it  had  proved, 
as  such  occurrences  usually  do,  merely  a  proverbial 
nine  days  wonder.  Long  since,  in  the  stress  and  in- 
terest of  current  events,  it  had  faded  more  or  less 
from  the  minds  of  all  men,  excepting  the  Mounted 
Police,  who,  though  saying  little  concerning  it,  still 
kept  keenly  on  the  alert  for  any  possible  clue. 


i92  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Equally  mystifying  was  the  uncanny  disappearance  of 
the  hobo  —  Drinkwater.  So  far  that  individual  had 
succeeded  in  eluding  apprehension,  although  minute 
descriptions  of  him  had  been  circulated  broadcast  to 
police  agencies  throughout  Canada  and  the  United 
States. 

"Eyah!"  Sergeant  Slavin  was  wont  to  remark 
sagely:  "  'Tis  an  ould  sayin',  bhoys  —  'Murdher  will 
out'  —  we'll  sure  dhrop  onto  it  sooner  or  lather,  an* 
thin  belike  we'll  get  th'  surprise  av  our  lives  —  for  I 
firmly  believe,  as  Kilbride  said  —  't'will  prove  tu  be 
some  lokil  man  who  had  a  grudge  agin'  pore  Larry 
for  somethin'  or  another.  So  —  just  kape  on  quietty 
watchin'  —  an'  listh'nin,  an'  we'll  nail  that  fella  yet." 

Just  now  that  worthy  was  surveying  his  subordi- 
nates with  a  care-free  smile  of  bonhomie.  "Guess  we'll 
dhrop  inta  th'  shtore  on  our  way  up"  suggested  he, 
"see'f  there's  any  mail,  an'  have  a  yarn  wid  ould  Mac- 
David." 

Half  way  up  the  long,  winding,  graded  trail  that: 
led  to  the  detachment,  the  trio  turned  into  another  trail 
which  traversed  it  at  this  point.  Following  this  for 
some  few  hundred  yards  westward  they  reached  the 
substantial  abode  of  Morley  MacDavid,  who  was,  as 


THE?  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     193 

his  name  suggested,  the  hamlet's  oldest  settler  and  it's 
original  founder. 

His  habitation  —  combining  store,  post-office,  and 
ranch-house  —  was  a  commodious  frame  dwelling,  un- 
pretentious in  appearance  but  not  wanting  in  evi- 
dences of  prosperity.  Its  rear  presented  the  usual 
aspect  of  a  ranch,  with  huge,  well-built  barns  and 
corrals.  Although  it  was  summer,  many  wide  stacks 
of  hay  and  green  oats,  apparently  left  over  from  the 
previous  season,  suggested  that  he  was  a  cautious  man 
with  an  eye  to  stock-feeding  during  the  winter  months. 
To  neglect  of  the  precaution  of  putting  up  sufficient 
feed  to  tide  over  the  severe  weather  might  be  attrib- 
uted most  of  the  annual  ranching  failures  in  the  West. 
The  MacDavid  establishment  bore  a  well-ordered  as- 
pect, unlike  many  of  the  unthrifty,  ramshackle  ranches 
of  his  neighbours.  The  fencing  was  of  the  best,  and 
there  were  no  signs  of  decay  or  dilapidation  hi  any 
of  the  buildings.  Dwarf  pines  were  planted  about 
and  a  Morning  Glory  vine  over-ran  the  house,  giving 
the  place  an  air  of  restful  domesticity.  As  they  en- 
tered the  store  the  trio  noticed  a  saddle-horse  tied  to 
the  hitching-rail  outside. 

They  were  greeted  jovially  by  MacDavid  himself- 


194  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Lounging  behind  his  store-counter,  with  his  back  up 
against  a  slung  pack  of  coyote  skins,  he  was  listening 
in  somewhat  bored  fashion  to  a  talkative  individual 
opposite.  He  evidently  hailed  their  arrival  as  a  wel- 
come diversion.  In  personality,  Morley  MacDavid  was 
an  admirable  type  of  the  western  pioneer.  A  tall, 
slimly-built,  but  wiry,  active  man  of  fifty,  or  there- 
abouts, with  grizzled  hair  and  moustache.  Burnt  out 
and  totally  ruined  three  successive  times  in  the  past  by 
the  depredations  of  marauding  Indians,  the  fierce,  in- 
domitable energy  of  the  broken  man  had  asserted  itself 
and  enabled  him  finally  to  triumph  over  all  his  mis- 
chances. Aided  in  the  struggle  by  his  devoted  wife, 
who  throughout  the  years  had  bravely  faced  all  dangers 
and  hardships  with  him,  he  had  eventually  accumulated 
a  hard-won  fortune.  In  addition  to  the  patronage  that 
he  received  from  the  local  ranches,  he  conducted  an 
extensive  business  trading  with  the  Indians  from  the 
big  Reserve  in  the  vicinity.  A  man  of  essentially 
simple  habits,  through  sentiment  or  ingrained  thrifti- 
ness,  he  disdained  to  abandon  the  routine  and  the 
scenes  of  his  former  active  life,  although  his  bank- 
balance  and  his  holdings  in  land  and  stock  probably  ex- 
ceeded that  of  many  a  more  imposing  city  magnate. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     195 

The  newcomers,  disposing  themselves  comfortably 
upon  various  sacked  commodities,  proceeded  to  smoke 
and  casually  inspect  the  voluble  stranger.  He  was  a 
tallish,  well-built  man  nearing  middle-age,  with  a  gray 
moustache,  a  thin  beak  of  a  nose,  and  a  bleached-blue 
eyes.  He  was  dressed  in  an  old  tweed  suit,  obviously 
of  English  cut,  a  pair  of  high-heeled,  spurred  riding- 
boots  and  a  cowboy  hat.  Vouchsafing  a  brief  nod  to 
the  visitors  he  continued  his  conversation  with  Mac- 
David. 

"Ya-as,"  he  was  drawling,  "one  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary shots  you  ever  heard  of,  Morley!  I  was  be- 
tween the  devil  and  the  deep  sea  —  properly.  There 
was  the  bear  —  rushing  me  at  the  double  and  there 
was  the  cougar  perched  growling  up  on  the  rock  be- 
hind me.  I  made  one  jump  sideways  and  let  the  bear 
have  it  —  slap  through  the  brain,  and.  .  .  that  same 
shot,  sir,  ricocheted  up  the  face  of  the  rock  and  killed 
the  cougar  —  just  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  springing! 
By  George,  y'know,  it  was  one  of  the  swiftest  things 
that  ever  happened!" 

A  tense  silence  succeded  the  conclusion  of  this  thrill- 
ing narrative., 

MacDavid  re-lit  his  pipe  and  puffed  thoughtfully 


196     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

awhile.  "Eyah,"  he  remarked  reminiscently,  "feller 
does  run  up  against  some  swift  propositions  now  an' 
again.  I  mind  one  time  I  was  headin'  home  from  Kana- 
naskis,  an'  a  bear  jumped  me  from  behind  a  fallen  log. 
The  lever  of  me  rifle  jammed  so,  all  I  could  do  was  to 
beat  it  —  in  a  hurry  —  an'  I  sure  did  hit  th'  high  spots> 
you  bet!  It  was  in  th'  early  spring  an'  th'  snow  still 
lay  pretty  deep,  but  —  I'd  got  a  twenty  yards  start  of 
that  bear,  an'  I  finally  beat  him  to  it  an'  made  my  get- 
away." 

The  stranger  whistled  incredulously.  "Wha-a-tt!" 
he  almost  shouted,  "D'ye  mean  to  tell  me  that  bear 
got  within  twenty  yards  of  you  and  couldn't  catch  you? 
Why,  man!  It's  incredible!" 

"Fact,"  replied  MacDavid  calmly,  knocking  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  "It  was  this  way:  It  was  near  th' 
edge  of  th'  bush  where  th'  bear  first  jumped  me,  an'  — 
just  as  we  hit  th'  open  ground  —  one  o'  them  warm 
Chinook  winds  sprung  up  behind  us,  travellin' 
east.  .  .  . 

"Man!"  He  paused  impressively.  "The  way  that 
wind  started  in  to  melt  th'  snow  was  a  corker  —  just 
like  lard  in  a  fryin'-pan.  But  —  I  just  managed  to 
keep  ahead  of  it  an'  while  I  had  a  good,  hard  surface 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     197 

of  snow  to  run  on,  the  bear  —  why  he  was  sloppin 
around  in  th'  slush  in  my  wake  —  couldn't  get  a  firm 
foothold,  I  guess.  .  .  ." 

His  keen  blue  orbs  stared  full  into  the  bleached  ones 
of  his  vis-a-vis. 

"I  figure  that  there  Chinook  an'  me  an'  th'  bear  must 
have  been  all  travellin'  'bout  th'  same  line  of  speed  — 
kind  of  swift.  After  a  mile  or  two  of  it,  th'  bear  —  he 
got  fed  up  an'  quit  cold,"  he  ended  gravely.  "Why  — 
what's  your  hurry,  Fred?" 

But  that  individual,  feebly  raising  both  arms  with 
a  sort  of  hopeless  gesture,  suddenly  grabbed  up  his 
mail  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  his  horse. 

The  hoof-beats  died  away  and  MacDavid  turned  to 
the  grinning  policemen.  "Fred  Storey,"  he  said,  in 
answer  to  their  looks  of  silent  enquiry.  "Runs  th' 
R.U.  Ranch,  out  south  here.  Not  a  bad  head,  but"  — 
he  sighed  deeply  —  "he's  such  an  ungodly  liar.  I 
can't  resist  gettin'  back  at  him  now  an'  again  —  just 
for  luck.  He's  up  here  on  a  visit  —  stayin'  with  th' 
Sawyers." 

"H-mm!"  ejaculated  Yorke,  "seems  to  me  I've  got 
a  hazy  recollection  of  meeting  up  with  that  fellow 
before  —  somewhere.  In  a  hotel  in  High  River, 


198  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

I  think  it  was.  Beggar  was  yarning  about  Cuba, 
I  remember." 

"Bet  it  was  hazy  all  right,"  was  Redmond's  sarcastic 
rejoiner,  "like  most  of  your  bar-room  recollections, 
Yorkey."  He  gave  vent  to  a  snorting  chuckle.  "That 
'D'you  know?  Ya!  ya!'  accent  of  his  reminds  me  of 
that  curate  in  'The  Private  Secretary.'  I  saw  it  played 
in  Toronto,  once." 

At  this  juncture  the  door  opened,  and  a  trio  of 
Indians  padded  softly  into  the  store  with  gaily-beaded, 
moccasined  feet.  Two  elderly  bucks  and  a  young 
squaw.  The  latter  flashed  a  shy,  roguish  grin  at  the 
white  men,  and  then  with  the  customary  effacement  of 
Indian  women  withdrew  to  the  rear  of  the  store. 
Squatting  down,  all  huddled-up  in  her  blanket,  she 
peered  at  them  with  the  incurious,  but  all-seeing  stare 
of  her  tribe.  George  got  an  impression  of  beady  black 
eyes  and  a  brown,  rounded,  child-like  face  framed  in 
a  dazzling  yellow  kerchief. 

1tye  two  bucks,  with  a  momentary  gleam  of  welcome 
wrinkling  their  ruthless,  impassive  features,  exchanged 
a  salutation  with  MacDavid  in  guttural  Cree,  which 
language  the  latter  spoke  fluently.  They  were  clothed 
in  the  customary  fashion  of  their  tribe  —  with  a  sort  of 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     199 

blanket-capote  garment  reaching  below  the  knee,  their 
lower  limbs  swathed  in  strips  of  blanket,  wound  puttee* 
wise.  Battered  old  felt  hats  comprised  their  head-gear, 
below  which  escaped  two  plaited  pig-tails  of  coarse, 
mane-like,  black  hair,  the  latter  parted  at  the  nape  of 
the  neck  and  dangling  forward  down  their  broad  chests. 

Slavin  and  Yorke  hailed  them  familiarly.  The  elder 
buck  rejoiced  in  the  sonorous  title  of  "Minne-tronk- 
ske-wan,"  but  divers  convictions  for  insobriety  under 
the  Indian  Liquor  Act,  and  the  facetious  tongue  of 
Yorke,  had  contorted  this  into  the  somewhat  oppro- 
brious nickname  of  "Many  Drunks."  His  companion 
was  known  as  "Sun  Dog." 

They  now  proceeded  to  shake  hands  all  around. 
"How!  Many  Crunks!"  shouted  Yorke.  Pointing  to 
Redmond,  he  added  "oweski  shemoganish"  (new  police- 
man). With  a  ferocious  grin,  intended  for  an  in- 
gratiating smile  of  welcome,  Many  Drunks  advanced 
upon  George,  with  outstretched  hand.  In  a  rapid  aside 
Yorke  said:  "Listen,  Reddy,  to  what  he  says,  he  only 
knows  six  or  seven  words  of  English,  but  he's  as  proud 
as  Punch  of  'em  —  always  likes  to  get  'em  off  on  a 
stranger.  Don't  laugh ! " 

Within  a  pace  of  Redmond  that  gentleman  halted 


200  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"How!"  he  grunted,  and,  pausing  impressively  drew 
himself  up  and  tapped  his  inflated  chest,  "Minne-tronk- 
ske-wan!  .  .  .  great  man! — me  —  " 

And  then  Redmond  nearly  choked,  as  Many  Drunks, 
with  intense  gravity,  proudly  conferred  upon  himself 
the  most  objectionable  title  that  exists  in  four  words 
of  the  English  language  —  rounding  that  same  off  with 
a  majestic  "Wah!  wah!" 

Turning,  George  beheld  himself  the  target  of  covert 
grins  from  the  others,  who  evidently  were  familiar  with 
Many  Drunks'  linguistic  attainments.  Sun  Dog  merely 
uttered  "How!  Shemoganish."  He  did  not  profess 
ability  to  rise  to  the  occasion  like  his  companion. 

Yorke,  who  was  evidently  in  one  of  his  reckless, 
rollicking  moods,  proceeded  to  make  certain  teasing 
overtures  to  Many  Drunks.  His  knowledge  of  Cree 
being  nearly  as  limited  as  that  worthy's  knowledge  of 
English,  he  enlisted  the  aid  of  MacDavid  as  interpreter. 
The  dialogue  that  ensued  was  something  as  follows: 

"Tell  him  I'm  fed  up  with  the  Force  and  am  thinking 
seriously  of  going  to  live  on  the  reserve  —  monial 
nayanok-a-weget  —  turn  'squaw-man'  —  'take  the 
blanket.' " 

MacDavid  translated  swiftly,  received  the  answer, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     201 

and  turned  to  Yorke.  "He  says  'Aie-ha!  (yes)  You 
make  good  squaw-man.' " 

"Ask  him  —  if  I  do  —  if  he'll  mushkatonamwat 
(trade)  me  the  young  lady  over  in  the  corner  there,  for 
two  bottles  of  skutiawpwe  (whiskey)." 

"He  says  "Nemoyah!"  (no)  —  if  he  dees  that,  you'll 
turn  around  and  kojlpyhok  (arrest)  him  for  having 
liquor  in  his  possession." 

"Tell  him  —  Nemoyah!  I  won't." 

"He  says  Aie-ha!  ekwece!  (Yes,  all  right)  you  can 
have  her.  Says  she's  his  brother's  wife's  niece.  But  he 
says  you  must  give  him  the  two  bottles  of  skutiawpwe 
first,  though." 

The  object  of  these  frivolous  negotiations  had  mean- 
while covered  her  head  with  the  blanket,  from  the 
folds  of  which  issued  shrill  giggles.  Sun  Dog,  who 
had  been  listening  intently  with  hand  scooped  to  ear 
(he  was  somewhat  deaf) ,  now  precipitated  himself  into 
the  discussion.  Violently  thrusting  his  elder  companion 
aside  he  commenced  to  harangue  MacDavid  in  an  ex- 
cited voice  and  with  vehement  gestures  of  disapproba- 
tion of  the  whole  proceedings.  The  trader  translated 
swiftly: 

"He  says  Nemoyah!  —  not  to  give  the  bottles  to 


202  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Many  Drunks,  as  when  he  gets  full  of  skutiawpw&  he 
raises  hell  on  th'  reserve,  an'  there's  no  livin'  with  him. 
Says  he-  beats  up  his  squaw  an'  starts  in  to  scalp  th' 
clogs  an'  chickens." 

"Shtop  ut!"  bawled  Slavin,  "d'ju  hear,  Yorkey?  .  .  . 
shtoolin'  th'  nitchie  on  tu  commit  a  felony  an'  th'  like, 
lhataways!"  He  sniffed  disgustedly.  "Skutiawpwd 
an'  squaws!  .  .  .  blarney  me  sowl!  but  ye've  a  quare 
idea  av  a  josh.  'Tis  a  credit  y'are  tu  th'  Ould  Counthry, 
an'  no  error.  I  do  not  wondher  ye  left  ut." 

"Sh-sh!"  said  that  gentleman  soothingly,  "coarsely 
put,  Burke!  coarsely  put!  .  .  .  Say  Wine  and  Women, 
guv'nor!  Wine  and  Women!  If  you  were  in  India, 
Burke,  they'd  make  you  Bazaar-Sergeant  —  put  you  in 
charge  of  the  morals  of  the  regiment.  Both  items  are 
all  right  —  always  providing  you  don't  get  a  lady  like 
Misthress  Lee  for  a  chaser.  How'd  you  like  to  be  in 
Nick's  shoes?  What  'shteps'  would  you  take?" 

Slavin  stared  at  his  tormentor,  blankly,  a  moment. 
"Shteps?"  he  ejaculated  sharply,  "fwhat  shteps?  .  .  . 
He  leant  back  with  a  fervent  sigh  and  softly  rubbed 
his  huge  hands  together.  "Long  wans,  avick!  .  .  . 
eyah,  d d  long  wans,  begorrah!" 

Many  Drunks  now  realizing  that  he  was  merely  the 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     203 

victim  of  a  joke,  scowled  in  turn  upon  Yorke.  Mutter- 
ing something  to  MacDavid  he  backed  up  against  the 
wall  and,  squatting  down,  proceeded  philosophically  to 
fill  his  pipe. 

"What's  that  he  said?"  queried  Yorke  of  the  inter- 
preter, "I  couldn't  catch  it." 

The  latter  grinned.  "He  says  —  of  all  the  white 
men  he's  ever  met  in  his  time,  Stamixotokon*  and  my 
self  are  the  only  ones  he's  ever  known  to  tell  th' 
truth." 

"It's  my  belief  the  beggar'd  flirt  with  Mrs.  Lee, 
himself,  if  he  only  got  the  chance"  said  Redmond 
laconically,  "d'you  recollect  that  day  he  picked  her 
parcel  up  for  her  —  how  nice  she  was  to  him?" 

"Eyah,"  said  Slavin  darkly,  "I  remimber  ut!  That 
man"  —  he  darted  an  accusing  finger  at  Yorke  —  "wud 
thry  tu  come  th'  Don  Jewan  wid  anything  wid  a  shkirrt 
on  —  from  coast  to  coast.  Flirrt?  Yeh're  tellin'  th' 
trute,  bhoy,  yeh're  tellin'  th'  trute!  He'd  a-made  a 
good  undhershtudy  for  ould  Nobby  Guy,  down 
Regina." 

*  Note  by  Author  —  The  late  Colonel  Macleod,  who  for  many  years 
was  Commissioner  of  the  R.N.W.M.  Police.  He  was  greatly  re- 
spected and  trusted  by  all  the  Indian  tribes. 


204  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

He  settled  himself  comfortably  and  lit  his  pipe. 
"Eyah,  th'  good  ould  days,  th'  good  ould  days!"  he 
resumed  reminiscently,  between  puffs,  "Hark  now  till 
I  teU  ye  th'  tale  av  ould  Nobby!" 

"Is  that  the  man  they  used  to  josh  about,  down 
Regina?"  enquired  Redmond.  "Used  to  say  'I'm  a 
man  of  few  words?' ' 

Slavin  nodded  affirmatively.  "That's  him,  Sarjint 
in  charrge  av  th'  town  station  he  was  —  years  back. 
This  is  —  whin  I  was  Corp'ril  at  headquarthers.  A 
foine  big  roosther  av  a  man  was  Nobby,  wid  a  mighty 
pleasant  way  wid  um  —  'specially  wid  th'  ladies.  Wan 
night  —  blarney  me  sowl!  Will  I  iver  forghet  ut? 
Nobby  'phones  up  th'  Gyard-room  reporthin'  th' 
Iroquois  Hotel  on  fire,  an*  requestin'  th'  O.C.  for  a 
shquad  av  men  tu  help  fight  ut,  an'  kape  th'  crowd 
back.  So  down  we  wint,  a  bunch  av  us.  It  sure  was  a 
bad  fire  all  right.  No  lives  was  lost,  but  th'  whole 
shebang  was  burnt  tu  th'  ground.  Kapin'  th'  crowd 
back  was  our  hardest  job.  Du  fwhat  we  cud,  we  cud 
not  make  some  av  th'  silly  fules  kape  back  clear  av  th' 
danger-zone  —  wimmin  an'  all,  bedad! 

"By  and  by,  a  section  av  the  wall  tumbles  an'  quite 
a  bunch  av  people  got  badly  hurt  —  Nobby  amongst 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     205 

thim.  We  dhragged  thim  out  as  quick  as  we  cud  an' 
laid  them  forninst  th'  wall  av  a  buildin'  near-by  — 
awaithin'  some  stretcher-bearers.  Nobby'd  got  his  leg 
bruk,  but  he  seemed  chipper  enough  an'  chewed  th'  rag 
wid  us  awhile.  Next  tu  him  was  a  wumman  —  cryin' 
something  pitiful  —  she'd  got  her  leg  bruk,  tu.  Nobby 
rised  him  up  on  his  elbow  an'  lukked  at  her. 

"Now,  'tis  powerful  dhry  wurrk,  bhoys,  fightin' 
fire,  an'  may  be  Nobby  —  well,  I  cannot  account  for 
ut  otherwise  —  him  havin'  th'  nerve'  tu  du'  fwhat  he 
did  —  onless  p'raps  't'was  just  th'  natch'ril  tindher- 
hearthedness  av  th'  man  —  thryin'  for  tu  comfort  her. 
Afther  that  wan  luk  tho',  Nobby  he  'comes  tu  th' 
halt,'  so  tu  shpake,  an'  'marks  time'  awhile  considherinf 
—  for  becod,  she  was  a  harrd-lukkin  ould  case— i 
long  beyant  mark  av  mouth. 

"Presintly,  sez  he:  'I'm  a  man  av  few  wurrds!  — * 
'tis  of  then  I  have  kissed  a  young  wumman!'  —  an'  he 
thwirls  th'  big  buck  moustache  av  um  very  slow — - 
ffwhy  shud  I  not  kiss  an  ould  wan?  .  .  .'  —  an'  he 
'did.  .  .  . 

"That's  how  th'  man's  throuble  shtarted.  Brought 
ut  all  on  umsilf.  Course  at  th'  toime,  fwhy!  she 
slapped  th'  face  av  um  an'  called  um  all  manner  av 


206  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

harrd  names  —  but,  all  th'  same!  she  must  have  liked 
ut,  for  while  they  was  convalescin'  she  was  everlasht- 
ingly  sendhin  Nobby  notes  an'  flowers  an'  such  like. 
But  for  all  that  Nobby  wud  have  no  thruck  wid  her, 
for  all  she  was  a  widder,  well  fixed  —  wid  a  house  av 
her  own  an'  lashuns  av  money.  Whin  they  was  both 
out  av  hospital  she  was  afther  um  again,  an'  du  fwhat 
he  cud  he  cud  not  shake  that  wumman. 

"Th'  ind  av  ut  was,  Nobby  reports  sick,  an'  th' 
reg'minthal  docthor,  ould  'Knockemorf  Probyn, 
gives  um  th'  wance  over.  He  luks  over  some  papers 
an'  sez  he:  'A  change  an'  a  rist  is  fwhat  yu'  need, 
Sarjint  Guy.  There's  a  dhraft  leavin'  next  week  for 
Herschell  Island*  —  I  think  I  will  mark  yu  up  fur  ut.* 

"  'Herschell  Island?'  sez  pore  Nobby,  an'  wid  that 
he  let's  out  a  howl. 

"'Tut,  tut!'  sez  ould  Knockemorf,  who  was  wise 
tu  th'  man's  throuble  'Tis  safer  off  there'll  yu'll  be, 
man,  than  here,  I'm  thinkin'.' 

"He  was  shtandin'  by  th'  Gyard-room  gate  that  day- 
week  whin  th'  dhraft  marched  out  on  their  way  tu 
enthrain  —  Nobby  amongst  thim.  'Good-bye,  Doc- 

*  Note  by  Author  —  This  island  is  in  the  Arctic  Circle.  The  most 
northerly  post  of  the  R.N.W.M.  Police. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     207 

thor!'  he  calls  out,  tears  in  th'  eyes  av  urn, '  'Tis  sendhin 
me  tu  me  grave  y'are,  God  forgive  yez!' 

"  'Nonsince!'  shouts  Knockemorf.  'Say  yeh  prayers 
an'  kape  yeh  bowils  opin,  me  man,  an'  ye  will  take  no 
harrm!' 

"Some  sind-off!  well!  —time  wint  on,  an'  wan  day 
I  gets  a  letther  from  me  ould  friend,  Ginger  Johnson, 
who  was  stationed  there  tu,  tellin'  me  all  th'  news. 
Nobby,  sez  he,  was  doin'  fine,  fat  as  a  hog,  an'  happy 
as  a  coon  in  a  melun  patch.  Wan  day,  sez  he,  a  buck 
av  th'  name  av  Wampy  Jones  comes  a  runnin'  inta 
th'  Post,  wid  th'  face  av  a  ghost  an*  th'  hair  av  um 
shtickin  shtraight  up.  Said  a  Polar  bear'd  popped  out 
f orninst  a  hummock  an'  chased  um  —  like  tu  th'  tale 
av  Morley,  here.  Nobby,  sez  Johnson,  on'y  grins  at 
th'  man,  an'  sez  he:  'That's  nothin'!'  An*  thin  he 
shtarts  in  tellin'  thim  all  'bout  this  widder  at  Regina." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry, 
"Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  morel" 

MACBETH. 

THE  sergeant's  story  evoked  a  general  laugh  from 
his  hearers.    He  arose  and  knocked  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe.     "Come  on,  bhoys!"  said  he. 
"Let's  beat  ut.    Morley  here's  a  respectable  married 
man  —  we've  bin  demoralisin'  him  an'  his  store  long 
enough,  I'm  thinkin'." 

Pocketing  his  packet  of  mail  he  and  his  subordinates 
stepped  to  the  door,  MacDavid  casually  following  them 
outside.  Tethered  to  the  hitching-post,  they  noticed, 
were  the  team  of  scare-crow  cayuses  belonging  to 
Sun  Dog  and  Many  Drunks. 

"Poor  beggars  look  as  if  a  turn-out  on  the  range 
wouldn't  do  them  any  harm,"  remarked  Redmond. 

The  thud  of  hoof-beats  suddenly  fell  upon  their  ears 
and,  turning,  they  beheld  Gully  on  his  gray  horse 
loping  past  them,  about  twenty  yards  distant. 
Apparently  in  a  hurry,  he  merely  waved  to  them  and 

208 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     209 

rode  on,  heading  in  the  direction  of  his  ranch.  And 
then  occurred  a  startling,  sinister  incident  which  no 
man  there  who  witnessed  it  ever  forgot. 

Suddenly,  with  the  vicious  instinct  of  Indian  curs, 
three  dogs  which  had  been  sprawling  in  the  shade  of 
the  dilapidated  wagon-box  sprang  forward  simul- 
taneously in  a  silent,  savage  dash  at  the  horse's  heels. 
The  nervous  animal  gave  a  violent  jump,  nearly  un- 
seating its  rider,  who  pitched  forward  onto  the  saddle- 
horn. 

They  heard  his  angry,  startled  oath,  and  saw  him 
jerk  his  steed  up  and  whirl  about,  then,  quick  as  con- 
juring, came  a  darting  movement  of  his  right  hand 
between  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  a  pistol-barrel 
gleamed  in  the  sun. 

The  curs,  by  this  time,  were  flying  back  to  the  shelter 
of  the  wagon-box,  but  ere  they  reached  it  —  crack! 
crack!  crack!  three  shots  rang  out  in  quick  succession, 
and  three  lumps  of  quivering  canine  flesh  sprawled 
grotesquely  on  the  prairie. 

The  startled  spectators  stared  aghast.  Startled  — 
for,  though  all  of  them  there  were  more  or  less  trained 
shots,  such  swift,  deadly  gunmanship  as  this  was  utterly 
beyond  their  imaginations.  Gully  had  made  no  pre- 


210  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

tence  at  aiming.  With  a  snapping  action  of  his  wrist 
he  had  seemed  to  literally  fling  the  shots  at  the  retreat- 
ing dogs.  It  was  the  practised  whirl  and  flip  of  the 
finished  gun-man. 

No  less  astounding  was  the  uncanny  legerdemain 
displayed  in  drawing  from  and  replacing  the  weapon 
in  its  place  of  concealment  The  Indians,  attracted 
from  the  store  by  the  sounds  of  shooting,  began  gab- 
bling and  gesticulating  affrightedly,  but  when  Mac- 
David  spoke  to  them  sharply  in  Cree  they  retreated 
inside  again. 

Some  distance  away,  glaring  at  the  dead  dogs,  the 
justice  sat  in  his  saddle,  and  from  beneath  his  huge 
moustache  he  spat  a  volley  of  most  un-magisterial 
oaths,  delivered  in  a  snarling,  nasal  tone  foreign  to 
the  ears  of  his  listeners.  A  minute  or  so  he  remained 
thus,  then  his  baleful  eyes  met  the  steady,  meaning 
stare  of  the  motionless  quartette  and  his  face  changed 
to  a  blank,  irresolute  expression.  He  made  a  motion  of 
urging  his  horse  forward,  then,  checking  it  abruptly, 
he  wheeled  about,  loping  away  in  his  original  direction. 

The  trader  was  the  first  one  to  find  his  voice. 
"Well,  my  God!"  he  ejaculated.  "Did  you  ever  see 
th'  like  o'  that?" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     211 

His  companions  remained  curiously  silent.  "Gully ! " 
he  continued,  with  vibrating  voice,  "whoever'd 
a-thought  that  that  drawlin'  English  dude  could  shoot 
like  that?  .  .  .  Fred  Storey  should  have  been 
here.  .  .  ."  Still  getting  no  response  to  his  remarks 
he  glanced  up  wonderingly.  The  three  policemen 
were  staring  strangely  at  each  other,  and  something 
in  their  expression  startled  him. 

"Eh !    Why !    What's  up  ? "  he  queried  sharply. 

Then  Slavin  spoke  grimly.  "Let's  go  luk  at  thim 
dogs,"  was  all  he  vouchsafed. 

They  stepped  forward  and  inspected  the  carcasses 
.critically.  "Fifty  yards  away,  if  he  was  a  foot!" 
said  Redmond,  "and  he  dropped  them  in  one!  two! 
three!  ,  .  ." 

"Slap  through  the  head,  too!"  muttered  Yorke. 
"Burke!"  —  he  added  suddenly.  Slavin  met  his  eye 
with  a  steady,  meaning  stare;  then,  at  something  he 
read  in  his  subordinate's  face,  the  sergeant's  deep-set 
orbs  dilated  strangely  and  he  swung  on  his  heel. 

"Aye!"  he  ejaculated  with  an  oath  "I  was  forghettin' 
thim  —  come  bhoys!  let's  go  luk  for  thim.  Shpread 
out,  or  we  may  miss  the  place." 

"Empty  shells,"   explained  Yorke   to   the  others, 


212  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"automatic  ejection  —  you  remember,  Reddy!  We 
may  find  them." 

Keeping  a  short  distance  apart,  they  sauntered  for- 
ward, trying  to  recall  the  spot  Gully  had  shot  from. 
For  awhile,  with  bent  heads,  they  circled  slowly  about 
each  other,  carefully  scrutinizing  the  short  turf.  Pres- 
ently the  trader  uttered  a  low  exclamation.  "Here's 
th'  place!"  he  said,  pointing  downwards.  The  others 
joined  him  and  they  all  gazed  at  the  cluster  of  deeply- 
indented  hoof-marks,  indicating  where  the  horse  had 
propped  and  whirled  about. 

"Aha!"  said  Redmond,  suddenly. 

"Got  ut?"  queried  Slavin. 

For  answer  George  dropped  a  small  discharged  shell 
into  the  other's  outstretched  palm.  The  sergeant 
made  swift  examination.  A  shocking  blasphemy 
escaped  him,  and  for  an  instant  he  jerked  back  his 
arm  as  if  to  fling  the  article  away,  then,  recovering 
himself  with  an  effort,  he  handed  it  to  Yorke,  who 
peered  in  turn. 

The  latter  made  a  wry  face.  "Hell!"  he  ejaculated 
disgustedly,  "it's  a  'Savage'  this  —  thirty-two  at 
that!"  He  lowered  his  voice.  "The  other  was  a 
thirty-eight  Luger  —  what?" 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     213 

"Time  an'  agin,"  Slavin  was  declaiming  in  impotent 
rage  and  with  upraised  fist,  —  "Time  an'  ag'in  —  have 
we  shtruck  a  lead  on  this  blasted  case  —  on'y  tu  find 
ut  peter  out  agin.  ...  Oh!  how  long,  O  Lord?  how 
long?  .  .  ." 

MacDavid  stopped  in  turn.  "Here's  th'  other  two, 
Sarjint,"  he  said.  Slavin  dropped  the  shells  into  his 
pocket  and  for  a  space  he  remained  in  deep  thought 
Then  he  turned  to  the  trader. 

"Morley,"  he  said  quietly,  "yu're  not  a  talker,  I 
know,  but  —  anyways!  ...  I  ask  ye  now  .  .  .  ye'll 
oblige  me  by  shpakin'  av  this  tu  no  man  —  yet  awhiles 
....  I  have  me  raysons  —  onnershtand?" 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  question  and 
answer  were  silently  exchanged  in  that  one  significant 
look. 

MacDavid  nodded  brief  acquiescence  to  the  other's 
request.  "Aye!"  he  replied  reflectively,  "I  think  I 
do  —  now.  .  .  ." 

The  sergeant  turned  to  his  men.  "Come  on,  bhoys! " 
he  said.  "Let's  beat  ut  home.  I'm  gettin'  hungry." 

They  bid  the  trader  adieu,  and  trudged  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  detachment.  They  had  covered  some 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  silence  when  Slavin,  who  was  in 


214  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

the  lead,  suddenly  halted  and  whirled  on  his  subordi- 
nates  with  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"Windy  Moran,  begod!"  he  burst  out,  "mind  fwhat 
he  said  that  day  'bout  Gully  an'  that  dep'ty  sheriff 

bizness?  .  .  .  not  so 'Windy'  afther  all,  I'm 

thinking  eh?" 

For  some  few  seconds  they  stared  at  him,  aghast. 
They  had  forgotten  Moran. 

"Say,  Burke,  though?"  ejaculated  Yorke  incredu- 
lously. "Good  God!  somehow  the  thing  seems  im- 
possible .  .  .  not  the  'sheriff'  business  so  much  .  .  . 
the  other  —  Gully! — a  J.P.  —  a  man  of  his  class 
and  standing!  .  .  .  Why!  whatever  motive  — 

"He  may  have  two  guns,"  broke  in  Redmond. 

"Eyah,"  agreed  Slavin,  grimly,  "he  may.  ...  A 
Luger's  a  mighty  diff'runt  kind  av  a  gun  tu  other 
authomatics  ...  an'  th'  man  that  shot  Larry  Blake 
ain't  likely  tu  be  fule  enough  tu  risk  packin'  ut  around 
—  for  a  chance  tu  thrip  um  up  some  day." 

For  awhile  the  trio  cogitated  in  silence;  each  man 
striving  desperately  to  arrive  at  some  logical  solution  to 
the  extraordinary  problem  that  now  faced  them. 

"Bhoys!"  said  Slavin  presently,  "there's  no  doubt 
there  is  ...  somethin'  damnably  wrong  'bout  al?  this. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     215 

But,  all  th'  same,  fact  remains,  ye  cannot  shtart  in. 
makin'  th'  Force  a  laughin'  stock  by  charrgin'  a  man  av 
Gully's  position  wid  murdher  —  widout  mighty  shtrong 
evidence  tu  back  ut.  An'  sizin'  things  up  —  f what 
have  we  got,  afther  all,  .  .  .  right  now  .  .  .  tu  shwear 
out  a  warrant  on?  ...  No  thin',  really,  'cept  that  he's 
shown  us  he's  a  bad  man  wid  a  gun!  A  damned  bad 
break  that  was,  tho',  an'  I'll  bet  he's  sorry  for  that 
same,  tu.  Mind  how  he  kept  on  thravellin',  widout 
comin'  back  tu  shpake  wid  us?" 

He  shook  his  head  slowly,  in  sinister  fashion,  and 
stared  at  their  troubled  faces  in  turn.  "See  here;  luk," 
he  resumed  solemnly,  with  lowered  voice,  "honest  tu 
God,  in  me  own  mind  I  du  believe  he  is  th'  man  that 
done  ut."  He  paused  —  "but  provin'  ut's  a  diff  runt 
matther.  We  must  foller  this  up  an'  get  some  shtronger 
evidence  yet  —  behfure  we  make  th'  break." 

Suddenly  he  uttered  a  hollow  chuckle.  "Kilbride!" 
he  ejaculated.  "Mind  his  josh  that  day  —  'bout  it 
might  be  me,  or  Gully?  —  an  how  Gully  laughed, 
tu,  wid  th'  hand  of  um  like  this?" 

Napoleonic  fashion  he  thrust  his  huge  fist  between 
the  buttons  of  his  stable-jacket. 

"Yes,  by  gad!"  said  Yorke  reflectively.    "I  sure  do, 


216  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

now.  And  I'll  bet  he  had  his  right  hand  on  his  gun, 
too!  Force  of  habit,  I  guess,  if  he's  an  ex-deputy- 
sheriff.  From  what  little  he's  dropped  he's  sure 
knocked  around  some,  I  know.  Hard  to  say  where, 
and  what  the  beggar  hasn't  been  in  his  time.  This 
accounts  for  him  being  so  blooming  close  about  the 
Western  States.  It's  always  struck  me  as  being  queer, 
that,  because,  say,  look  at  the  slick  way  he  rides  and 
ropes!  He's  never  picked  that  up  in  five  years  over 
on  this  Side  —  and  that's  all  he  claims  he's  been  in 
Canada." 

"Besides"  chimed  in  Redmond,  eagerly,  "that  yarn 
of  his  about  that  hobo  swiping  his  dough,  Sergeant! 
'Frame-up,'  p'raps,  .  .  .  gave  it  to  him  and  told  him 
to  beat  it?  .  .  ." 

"Aw,  rot!"  said  Yorke,  disgustedly.  He  sniffed  with 
his  peculiar  mannerism,  "that's  dime-novel  stuff,  Red. 
D'ye  think  he'd  be  fool  enough  to  risk  that,  with  the 
chances  of  the  fellow  being  picked  up  any  minute  and 
squealing  on  him?"  He  was  silent  a  moment.  "Rum 
thing,  though,"  he  murmured,  "the  way  that  hobo 
did  beat  us  to  it." 

"  'Some  lokil  man/  sez  Kilbride,"  remarked  Slavin 
musingly.  "Just  th'  last  one  ye'd  think  av  suspectin', 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     217 

An'  Gully,  begod,  sittin'  right  there!  .  .  .  talk  'bout 
nerve!  .  .  ." 

"But,  good  heavens!"  burst  out  Yorke.  "Whoever 
would  have  suspected  him?"  He  laughed  a  trifle 
bitterly.  "It's  all  very  well  for  us  to  turn  round  now 
and  say  'what  fools  we've  been,'  and  all  that.  If  we'd 
have  been  the  smart,  cnever-make-a-mistake'  Alecks, 
like  we're  depicted  in  books,  why,  of  course  we'd  have 
'deducted'  this  right-away f  I  suppose?  Oh,  Ichabod! 
Ichabod!  An  Englishman,  too,  by  gad!  I'll  forswear 
my  nationality." 

"Whatever  could  he  have  on  Larry,  though?"  was 
Redmond's  bewildered  query.  "Say,  that  sure  was  a 
hell  of  a  trick  of  his  —  using  Windy's  horse  —  while 
the  two  of  them  were  scrapping  —  trying  to  frame  it  up 
on  him!" 

"Eyah,"  soliliquised  the  sergeant  sagely.  "  'Twill 
all  come  out  in  th'  wash.  WTain  cliver,  edjucated 
knockabouts  like  Gully  du  go  bad,  begob,  they  make  th' 
very  wurrst  kind  av  criminals.  They  kin  pass  things 
off  wid  th'  high  hand  an'  kape  their  nerve  betther'n  th' 
roughnecks  —  ivry  toime. 

"Think  av  that  terribul  murdherer,  Deeming  —  an' 
thim  tu  docthors  —  Pritchard  an'  Palmer,  colludge 


2i8  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

men,  all  av  thim.  An'  not  on'y  men,  but  wimmin,  tu. 
'Member  Mrs.  Maybrick?  All  movin'  in  th'  hoighth  av 
society!" 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  then  his  face  fell.  "I  must 
take  a  run  inta  th'  Post  an'  see  th'  O.C.  'bout  this," 
he  resumed.  "Tis  an  exthornary  case.  There's  just  a 
possibility  we  may  be  all  wrong  —  jumphin'  at  con- 
clusions tu  much.  Th'  ould  man!  ...  I  think  I  can 
see  th'  face  av  um.  He'll  shling  his  pen  across  th' 
Ord'ly-room.  'Damn  th'  man!  Damn  th'  man!'  he'll 
cry.  'Go  you  now  an'  apprehend  um  on  suspicion  thin! 
Fwhy  shud  I  kape  a  dog  an'  du  me  own  barkin'?' 
An'  thin  he'll  think  betther  av  ut  an'  chunt  'Poppycock, 
all  poppycock!  ...  As  you  were,  Sarjint'  —  an'  thin 
he'll  call  in  Kilbride.  Eh!  fwhat  yez  laughin'  at,  yeh 
fules?"  he  queried  irritably. 

In  spite  of  the  gravity  of  the  situation,  the  expres- 
sion on  their  superior's  cadaverous  face  just  then  — 
its  droll  mixture  of  apprehension  and  perplexity  was 
more  than  Yorke  and  Redmond  could  stand.  Awhile 
they  rocked  up  against  each  other  —  a  trifle  hysteri- 
cally; it  was  the  reaction  to  nerves  worked  up  to  a 
pitch  of  intense  excitement. 

"Yez  gigglin'  idjuts!"  growled  Slavin.    "Come  on, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     219 

let's  get  home!  No  use  us  shtandin  here  longer  — 
gassin'  like  a  bunch  av  ould  washer-wimmin  full  av 
gin  an'  throuble." 

In  silence  they  trudged  on  to  the  detachment. 
"  'Ome,  sweet  'ome!  be  it  never  so  'umble!"  quoth 
Yorke,  as  they  reached  their  destination,  "Hullo!  who's 
this  coming  along?"  Shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand 
he  gazed  down  the  trail.  "Looks  like  Doctor  Cox  and 
Lanky." 

The  trio  stared  at  the  approaching  buckboard  which 
contained  two  occupants.  "Sure  is,"  said  Redmond, 
"out  to  some  case  west  of  here,  I  suppose." 

They  hailed  the  physician  cheerily,  as  presently  he 
drew  up  to  the  detachment.  "Fwhere  away,  Docthor?" 
queried  Slavin.  "Will  ye  not  sbtop  an'  take  dinner 
wid  us,  yu'  an'  Lanky?  'Tis  rarely  we  see  yez  in 
these  parts  now." 

"Eh,  sorry!"  remarked  that  gentleman,  climbing  out 
of  the  rig  and  stretching  his  cramped  limbs,  "got  to 
get  on  to  Hor ton's,  though.  One  of  their  children's 
sick.  Thanks,  all  the  same,  Sergeant."  Glancing 
round  at  his  teamster  he  continued  in  lowered  tones, 
"There's  a  little  matter  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  fellows 
about." 


220  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Sure!"  agreed  Slavin,  quickly.  "Come  inside  thin, 
Docthor." 

The  party  entered  the  detachment  and,  seating  them- 
selves, gazed  enquiringly  at  their  visitor.  For  a  space 
he  surveyed  them  reflectively,  a  perturbed  expression 
upon  his  usually  genial  countenance.  His  first  words 
startled  them. 

"It's  about  your  J.P.,  Mr.  Gully,"  he  began.  "ThiS 
incident,  mind,  is  closed  absolutely  —  as  far  as  he  and 
I  are  concerned;  but,  under  the  circumstances,  which 
to  say  the  least  struck  me  as  being  mighty  peculiar, 
I  —  well!  ...  I  don't  think  it's  any  breach  of  medical 
etiquette  on  my  part  telling  you  about  it. 

"For  some  time  past  now  I've  been  treating  Gully 
for  insomnia.  Man  first  came  to  me  seemingly  on  the 
verge  of  a  nervous  breakdown  through  it. 

"I  prescribed  him  some  pretty  strong  opiates — • 
strong  as  I  dare  —  and  for  a  time  he  seemed  to  get 
relief.  But  a  couple  of  days  ago  he  came  around  and 
—  my  God!  .  .  .  Say!  if  I  hadn't  known  him  for  a 
man  who  drinks  very  little  I'd  have  sworn  he  was  in 
the  D.T.'s." 

The  doctor's  rotund  figure  stiffened  slightly  in  his 
seat,  and  his  genial  face  hardened  to  a  degree  that 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     221 

was  in  itself  a  revelation  to  his  audience.  Without 
any  semblance  of  bravado  he  continued  quietly,  "I 
hope  I  possess  as  much  physical  pluck  as  most  men  — 
I  guess  you  fellows  aren't  aware  of  it,  but  many  years 
back  I  too  wore  the  Queen's  uniform  —  Surgeon  in 
the  Navy.  I  served  in  that  Alexandria  affair,  under 
Charlie  Beresford. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  .  .  .  Gully  came  into  my 
surgery  that  day,  raving  like  a  madman.  He's  a  big, 
powerful  devil,  as  you  know.  I'll  confess  I  was  a  bit 
dubious  about  him  —  watched  him  pretty  close  for  a 
few  minutes,  for  he  acted  as  if  he  might  start  running 
amok.  *I  can't  sleep!'  he  kept  yelling  at  me,  'I  can't 
sleep,  I  tell  you!  .  .  .  That  dope  you're  giving  me's 
no  good.  .  .  .  Christ  Almighty!  give  me  a  shot  of 
cocaine,  Cox,  or  morphine,  and  get  me  a  supply  of  the 
stuff  and  a  needle,  will  you?  I'll  pay  you  any  amount!' 

"Naturally,  I  refused.  I'm  not  the  man  to  go  laying 
myself  open  to  anything  like  that.  Well!  Good  God! 
The  next  minute  the  man  came  for  me  like  a  lunatic 
—  clutching  out  at  me  with  those  great  hands  of  his 
and  with  the  most  murderous  expression  on  his  face  you 
can  imagine.  I  backed  away  to  the  medicine  cabinet 
and  caught  hold  of  a  pestle  and  told  him  I'd  brain  him 


222  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

with  it  if  he  touched  me.  I  threatened  I'd  lay  an  in- 
formation against  him  for  assault,  and  that  seemed  to 
quiet  him  down.  He  began  to  expostulate  then,  and 
eventually  broke  down  and  apologised  to  me  —  in  the 
most  abject  fashion.  Begged  me  to  overlook  his  loss 
of  control,  and  all  that.  Of  course  I  let  up  on  him  then. 
A  local  scandal  between  two  men  in  our  position 

wouldn't  do  at  all.  I  gave  him  a  d d  good  calling 

down,  though,  and  finally  advised  him  to  go  away  some- 
where for  a  complete  rest  and  change.  But  he  wouldn't 
agree  to  that  —  seemed  worried  over  his  ranch.  Said 
he'd  worked  up  a  pretty  good  outfit  and  couldn't  think 
of  leaving  his  stock  in  somebody  else's  hands  at  this 
time  of  the  year  —  couldn't  afford  it  in  fact.  Anyway 
—  that's  his  look-out.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  if  that 
man  doesn't  take  my  advice,  why  .  .  .  he's  going  to 
collapse.  I  know  the  symptoms  only  too  well.  That's 
the  curse  of  men  living  alone  on  these  homesteads — . 
brooding,  and  worrying  their  heads  off.  It  seems  to  get 
them  all  eventually  in — " 

Breaking  off  abruptly  he  glanced  at  his  watch. 
"Getting  late!"  he  ejaculated,  jumping  up,  "I  must 
be  getting  on  to  that  case." 

"Docthor!"  said  Slavin,  reflectively,  "  'tis  a  shtrange 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     223 

story  ye've  been  tellin'  us.  Ye'll  be  comin'  back  this 
way,  I  suppose  —  lather  in  th'  day?" 

The  physician  nodded. 

"I'd  like  fur  ye  tu  dhrop  in  agin,  thin,"  continued 
the  sergeant  slowly,  "if  ye  have  toime?  There's  a 
little  matther  I  wud  like  tu  dishcuss  wid  yu' — 'tis 
'bout  that  same  man." 

Doctor  Cox  glanced  sharply  at  the  speaker's  earnest, 
sombre  face.  A  certain  sinister  earnestness  underlay 
the  simple  words,  and  it  startled  him. 

"Very  good,  Sergeant!"  he  agreed,  "I'll  call  in  on 
my  way  back.  Well!  good-by,  all  of  you,  for  the  time 
being!" 

They  followed  him  outside  and  watched  the  rig 
depart  on  its  journey  westward.  It  was  Redmond 
who  broke  the  long  silence. 

"Well,  sacred  Billy!  What  do  you  know  about 
that?"  he  ejaculated  tensely. 

And  the  trio  turned  and  looked  upon  each  other 
strangely,  their  faces  registering  mutual  wonderment 
and  conviction. 

"Sleep?"  murmured  Yorke,  "No,  by  gum!  ...  no 
more  could  Macbeth,  with  King  Duncan  and  Banquo 
on  his  chest  o'  nights!  .  .  .  Well,  that  settles  it!" 


224  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

But  Slavin  made  a  gesture  of  dissent.  "As  you  were^ 
bhoys!"  was  his  sober  mandate.  "Sleeplishness's  no 
actual  proof  .  .  .  but  it's  a  pointer.  Th'  iron's  getthin' 
warrm  —  eyah!  d — — d  warrml,  s  .  .  but  we  cannot 
Batrike  yet" 


,'V- 


CHAPTER  XII 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad, 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end, 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend. 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones! 

Though  a  pauper,  he's  one  whom  his  Maker  yet  owns! 

"THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE." 

THEY  ate  dinner  more  or  less  in  silence.    Slavin 
had  relapsed  into  one  of  his  fits  of  morose 
taciturnity.     At  the  conclusion  of  the  meal, 
Yorke  and  Redmond  drew  a  bench  outside,  and  for 
awhile  sat  in  the  sun,  smoking. 

"He's  got  'Charley-on-his-back'  properly  to-day,"  re- 
marked the  sophisticated  Yorke,  with  a  sidelong  jerk  of 
his  head,  "old  beggar's  best  left  alone,  begad !  when  he 
get's  those  fits  on  him."  He  sniffed  the  fresh  air  and 
gazed  longingly  out  over  the  sunlit,  peaceful  landscape, 
flooded  with  a  warm,  sleepy,  golden  haze  of  summer. 
"Lord!  but  it's  a  peach  of  a  day"  he  continued,  "say, 
gossip  mine,  did  you  think  to  get  that  fishing-tackle 
at  Martin's  this  morning?" 


226  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

George  nodded  affirmatively.  Yorke  rose  and 
stepped  indoors.  "Say,  Burke,"  he  said  persuasively, 
"there's  not  much  doing  this  afternoon  —  how's 
chances  for  me  and  Reddy  going  down  to  the  Bend 
for  a  bit?  The  water  looks  pretty  good  just  now.  You'll 
want  to  have  a  lone  chin  with  the  Doctor,  anyway, 
no  use  us  sticking  around." 

The  sergeant,  engrossed  in  a  crime-report,  acceded 
gruffly  to  the  request.  "Run  thim  harses  in  first,  tho'! " 
he  flung  after  his  subordinate,  "an'  du  not  yu'  men  get 
tu  far  away  down-shtream,  in  case  I  might  want  yez." 

"That's  'Jake/  "  was  Redmond's  comment,  a  moment 
later,  "no  use  trying  fly-fishing  to-day,  though,  Yorkey 
• —  too  bright.  We'd  better  fish  deep.  Here,  you  get 
the  rods  all  fixed  up,  and  catch  some  grasshoppers,  and 
I'll  chase  out  in  the  pasture  and  run  the  horses  in." 

Some  half  an  hour  later  found  them  trudging  down 
the  long  slope  below  the  detachment  that  led  to  the 
nearest  point  of  the  Bow  River.  Here  the  river 
described  a  sharp  bend  southward  for  some 
distance,  ere  resuming  its  easterly  course.  Arriv- 
ing thither,  they  fished  for  awhile  in  blissful  con- 
tent; their  minds  for  the  time-being  devoid  of 
aught  save  the  sport  of  Old  Izaak.  Picking 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     227 

likely  spots  for  deep  casts,  they  meandered  slowly 
down-stream,  keeping  about  twenty  yards  apart. 
At  intervals,  their  piscatorial  efforts  were  rewarded 
with  success.  Four  fine  "two-pounders"  of  the  Cut- 
Throat"  species  had  fallen  to  Yorke's  rod  —  three  to 
Redmond's.  Then,  for  a  time  the  fish  ceased  to  bite. 

"Here!"  said  Yorke  suddenly.  "I'm  getting  fed  up 
with  this!  I  can't  get  a  touch.  There's  a  big  hole 
farther  down,  just  up  above  Gully's  place.  Let's  try 
it!  He  and  I  pulled  some  good  'uns  out  of  there,  last 
year." 

Eventually  they  reached  their  objective.  At  this 
point  the  force  of  the  current  had  gradually,  with  the 
years,  scooped  out  a  large,  semicircular  portion  of  the 
shelving  bank.  Also,  a  spit  of  gravel-bar,  jutting  far 
out  into  the  water,  had  stranded  a  small  boom  of  logs 
and  drift-wood;  the  whole  constituting  a  veritable 
breakwater  that  only  a  charge  of  dynamite  could  have 
shifted.  In  the  shelter  of  this  and  the  hollowed-out 
bank,  a  huge,  slow  eddy  of  water  had  formed, 
apparently  of  great  depth. 

As  Yorke  had  advertised  it  —  it  did  look  like  a 
likely  kind  of  a  hole  for  big  trout.  "You  wouldn't 
think  it,"  said  he  now,  "but  there's  twenty  feet  of  water 


228  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

in  that  pot  hole."  He  put  down  his  rod  and  slowly 
began  to  fill  his  pipe.  "You  can  have  first  shot  at  it, 
Red"  he  remarked,  "I'll  be  the  unselfish  big  brother. 
You  ought  to  land  a  good  'un  out  of  there.  Aha! 
what'd  I  tell  you?" 

Redmond's  gut  "leader"  had  barely  sunk  below  the 
surface  when  he  felt  the  thrilling,  jarring  strike  of  an 
unmistakably  heavy  fish.  The  tried,  splendid  "green- 
heart"  rod  he  was  using  described  a  pulsating  arc  under 
the  strain.  He  turned  to  Yorke  gleefully.  "By  gum! 
old  thing,  I've  sure  got  one  this  time,"  he  said,  "bet 
you  he's  ten  pound  if  he's  an  ounce.  Hope  the  line'll 
hold!" 

Simultaneously  they  uttered  an  excited  exclamation, 
as  a  huge,  silvery  body  darted  to  the  surface,  threshed 
the  water  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  and  then  dived. 

"Look  out!"  cried  Yorke.  "Give  him  line,  Red, 
give  him  line!  Play  him  careful  now,  or  you'll  lose 
him!" 

The  reel  screeched,  as  Redmond  let  the  fish  run. 
Then  —  without  warning  —  the  line  slacked  and  the 
rod  straightened.  George,  giving  vent  to  a  dismayed 
oath,  reeled  in  until  the  line  tautened  again,  and  the 
point  of  the  rod  dipped. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     229 

"What's  up?"  queried  Yorke,  "he's  still  on,  isn't 
he?" 

"Yes,"  growled  Redmond  miserably,  "feels  as  if  I'm 
snagged  though.  He's  there  right  enough  —  I  can  feel 
him  jumping.  Damnation!  That's  the  worst  of  string- 
ing three  hooks  on  your  leader.  One  of  'em's  snagged 
on  something  below,  I  guess.  Here!  hold  the  rod  a 
minute,  Yorkey!" 

The  latter  complied.  George  unbuttoned  and  threw 
off  his  stable-jacket  and  began  taking  off  his  boots. 
Yorke  contemplated  his  comrade's  actions  in  speechless 
amazement.  "Why,  what  the  devil?  —  "  he  began  — 

"I'm  not  going  to  lose  that  fish,"  mumbled  Redmond 
sulkily,  as  he  threw  off  his  clothes,  "I'll  get  him  by 
gum!  if  I  have  to  dive  to  the  depths  of  Hell." 

"Say,  now!  don't  be  a  fool!"  cried  Yorke,  "that 
water's  like  ice,  man!  You'll  get  cramped,  and  then 
the  two  of  us'll  drown.  We-11,  of  all  the  idiots!  —  " 

George,  by  this  time  stripped  to  the  buff,  crept  gin- 
gerly to  the  edge  of  the  shelving  bank.  In  his  right 
hand  he  grasped  —  opened  —  a  small  pen-knife.  "Aw, 
quit  it!"  he  retorted  rudely,  "I'll  only  be  under  a 
minute  —  hold  the  line  taut  —  straight  up  and  down, 
Yorkey,  so's  I  can  see  where  to  dive." 


230  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

He  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  then,  with  the  poise  of  a 
practised  swimmer,  dived  —  cutting  the  water  with 
barely  a  splash.  For  the  space  of  a  half -minute  Yorke 
stared  apprehensively  at  the  swirling  eddy,  beneath 
which  the  other  had  vanished.  The  line  still  remained 
taut.  Then  he  gave  a  gasp  of  relief,  as  Redmond's 
head  re-appeared,  and  that  young  gentleman  swam  to 
the  side.  Extending  a  hand,  the  senior  constable 
lugged  his  comrade  to  terra  firma. 

"That's  good!"  he  ejaculated  fervently.    "D n 

the  fish,  anyway!  I  guess  you  couldn't  make- 
He  broke  off  abruptly,  and  remained  staring  at  the 
dripping  George  with  startled  eyes.  The  latter 's  face 
registered  unutterable  horror,  and  he  shook  as  with  the 
ague.  Speech  seemed  beyond  him.  He  could  only 
mouth  and  point  back  to  the  gloomy  depths  whence 
he  had  just  emerged. 

"Here!"  cried  Yorke,  with  an  oath,  "whatever  is 
the  matter,  Reddy?  Man!  you  look  as  if  you'd  seen 
a  ghost!" 

Then  his  own  face  blanched,  as  the  shivering  George 
bubbled  incoherently,  "B-b-body!  b-b-body!  My 
God,  Yorkey!  th-there's  a  s-s-stiff  d-down  th-there! 
Ugh !  I  d-d-dived  right  onto  it  1 " 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     231 

For  a  brief  space  they  remained  staring  at  each 
other;  then,  a  strange  light  of  understanding  broke 
over  Yorke's  face,  and  he  made  a  snatch  at  Redmond's 
clothes.  Come!"  he  jerked  out  briskly.  "Get  'em 
on  quick,  Red,  else  you'll  catch  your  death  of  cold  — 
never  mind  about  drying  yourself  —  you  can  change; 
when  you  get  back." 

In  shivering  silence  his  comrade  commenced  to 
struggle  into  his  underclothes  and  "fatigue-slacks." 
Yorke  snapped  the  line  and  reeled  in  the  slack.  "Stiff!'* 
he  kept  ejaculating  "stiff!  Yes,  by  gad!  and  I  can 
make  a  pretty  good  guess  who  that  stiff  is!  ... 
Burke'll  have  all  the  evidence  he  wants  —  now.  You 
beat  it,  Reddy,  as  soon  as  you're  fit  and  get  him.  A 
run'll  warm  you  up.  The  grappling-irons  are  back  of 
the  stable.  And  say!  tell  him  to  bring  a  good  long 
rope.  Lord,  I  hope  Doctor  Cox  hasn't  left  yet.  I'll 
stay  here,  Reddy.  Hurry  up! " 

An  hour  or  so  later,  a  morbidly  expectant  gioup 
gathered  on  the  river-bank.  Redmond,  luckily,  had 
reached  the  detachment  just  prior  to  the  coroner's 
departure,  and  that  gentleman  now  comprised  one  of  a 
party.  Slavin  had  hitched  his  team  to  a  cotton- wood 


232  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

clump  nearby,  and  was  now  busily  rigging  the  double 
set  of  three-pronged  grappling-irons.  When  all  was 
ready,  he  motioned  to  his  companions  to  stand  back, 
and  then,  with  a  preliminary  whirl  or  two,  flung  the 
irons  into  the  pool,  some  distance  ahead  of  the  spot 
indicated  by  Redmond. 

Slowly  and  ponderously  he  began  the  dragging  re- 
cover, with  the  muscular  skill  of  a  man  long  inured  to 
the  gruesome  business.  His  first  effort  was  unsuc- 
cessful —  weeds  and  refuse  were  all  he  salvaged.  He 
tried  again,  with  the  same  result.  Cast  after  cast 
proved  futile.  After  the  last  failure  he  turned  and 
glowered  morosely  upon  Redmond. 

"  'Tis  either  dhrunk  or  dhramin'  ye  must  be,  bhoy! 
There's  nothin'  there.  I've  a  good  mind,"  he  added 

slowly  "a  d d  good  mind  tu  shove  ye  undher 

arrest  for  makin'  a  friv'lus  report  tu  yeh  superior!" 

Yorke  now  came  to  his  comrade's  rescue.  "By  gum, 
Burke,"  he  flashed  out  "if  you'd  seen  his  mug  when  he 
came  up  out  of  that  hole  you  wouldn't  have  thought 
there  was  anything  frivolous  about  it,  I  can  tell  you!" 

Poor  George  voiced  a  vehement  protest,  in  self  de- 
fense. "Good  God,  Sergeant!"  he  expostulated,  "d'you 
think  I'd  come  to  you  with  a  yarn  like  that?  I  tell 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     233 

you  it  is  there.  Have  another  try.  Sling  farther  over 
to  the  right  here!" 

Grumblingly,  the  latter  complied,  and  began  the 
slow  recover.  Suddenly,  the  rope  checked.  Slavin 
strained  a  moment,  then  he  turned  around  to  the  ex- 
pectant group.  "Got  ut!"  he  announced  grimly.  "I 
can  tell  by  th'  feel  av  ut.  Tail  on  tu  th'  rope  there, 
all  av  yez!  Now!  Yeo!  Heave  ho!" 

Like  a  tug  of  war  team  they  all  bowed  their  backs 
and  strained  with  all  their  might;  but  their  efforts 
proved  futile.  "Vast  heavin!"  said  Slavin,  breathing 
heavily.  "  'Tis  shtuck  somehow  —  I  will  have  tu  get 
th'  team  an'  double-trees.  Get  a  log  off'n  that  break- 
water, bhoys,  so's  th'  rope  will  not  cut  inta  th'  edge  av 
th'  bank." 

He  crossed  over  to  the  horses.  "Now!"  said  he, 
some  minutes  later,  as  he  backed  up  the  team  and  made 
all  fast  to  the  double-trees.  "Yu',  Reddy,  an'  Lanky, 
guide  th'  rope  over  th'  log.  Yu',  Yorkey,  get  th'  feel 
av  ut,  an'  give  me  th'  wurrd.  I  du  not  want  to 
break  ut." 

Yorke  leant  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  loosely 
feeling  the  rope.  "All  right!"  he  announced. 

Slavin,  edging  his  team  cautiously  forward,  and 


234  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

taking  the  strain  to  avoid  a  violent  jerk,  clucked  to 
•jthem.  With  a  scramble,  and  a  steady  heave  of  their 
powerful  hind-quarters,  they  started. 

With  bated  breath  the  watchers  gazed  at  the  rope  — 
creeping  foot  by  foot  out  of  the  discoloured  water. 
"Keep  a-going!"  Yorke  shouted  to  Slavin.  "It's  com- 
ing up,  all  right!" 

It  came.  Arising  slowly  and  sullenly  out  of  the 
depths  they  beheld  a  horrible,  dripping,  shapeless 
Something  that  eventually  resolved  itself  into  a  human 
body — clothed  in  torn  rags  and  matted  with  river- 
refuse. 

Then,  to  the  salvagers,  came  the  most  astounding 
and  sinister  revelation  of  all.  Startled  oaths  burst 
from  them  as  they  beheld  now  what  had  retarded  their 
first  pull.  Bound  tightly  to  the  body  with  rusted  wire 
was  a  huge,  hand-squared  block  of  stone.  The  ser- 
geant's last  and  successful  cast  had  resulted  in  two 
prongs  of  the  grappling-irons  catching  in  the  envelop- 
ing wire. 

Slowly  and  cautiously  the  whole  hideous  bulk  was 
finally  drawn  up  the  shelving  bank  and  over  the  log 
and  onto  dry  ground.  Yorke  shouted,  and  Slavin, 
checking  the  horses,  detached  the  rope  from  the  double- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     235 

trees.  Handing  the  lines  over  to  Lanky  Jones  he 
joined  the  others,  who  were  critically  examining  their 
gruesome  catch.  To  their  surprise,  although  the 
features  were  unrecognisable,  the  corpse  was  not  so 
decomposed  as  they  had  first  imagined,  the  ice-cold 
water  having  preserved  it  to  a  certain  extent.  Still 
firmly  hooked  to  the  rags  of  clothing  —  a  ludicrously 
grim  joke  —  was  the  huge  jumping,  gasping  trout 
which  Redmond  had  struck  and  lost. 

Suddenly  Yorke  uttered  a  low  exclamation,  "Burke! 
Burke!"  he  said  tensely,  "there  you  are!  .  .  ,  Look  at 
the  right  hand!" 

The  eyes  of  all  were  centered  on  the  grimy,  stiffened^ 
clawlike  fist.  They  saw  that  two  of  the  fingers  were 
missing.  An  exultant  oath  burst  from  Slavin.  "By 

G !"  he  said,  with  grim  conviction,  "it's  him  all 

right! — that  pore  hobo  shtiff  —  Dick  Drinkwater. 
Eyah!  f what's  in  a  name?  F what's  in  a  name?"  He 
pointed  to  the  grinning  jaws.  "Luk  at  th'  gold-  teeth 
av  um,  tu!"  he  added. 

The  coroner  was  examining  the  almost  fleshless  skull. 
He  gave  a  cry  of  anger  and  dismay.  "Good  God!" 
he  gasped.  "Look  here,  all  of  you!  .  .  .  This  man's 
been  shot  through  the  head,  too!"  He  indicated  the 


236  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

small,  circular  orifice  in  the  occiput,  and  its  egress 
below  the  left  eye. 

"Only  an  exceedingly  powerful,  high-pressure 
weapon  could  have  done  that,"  he  continued  signifi- 
cantly, "both  holes  are  alike  —  bullet  hasn't  'mush- 
roomed' at  all." 

"Eyah!"  Slavin  agreed  wearily.  "We  know  fwhat 
kind  av  a  gun  did  ut.  And  luk  here!"  he  added  sav- 
agely, pointing  to  the  bare  feet,  "here's  another  of 
Mr.  Man's  little  jokes  —  no  boots.  If  they'd  have 
been  lift  on  they'd  have  shtuck  tighter'n  glue  —  in 
that  water.  Reddy  was  'bout  right,  Yorkey!  Gully, 

d -n  him!  did  frame  us  that  day.  Must  have  used 

thim  himsilf  tu  make  thim  thracks  wid  —  early  in  th* 
moniin' —  behfure  he  met  up  wid  us  on  th'  thrail. 
Oh,  blarney  my  sowl!  Yes!  Had  us  chasin'  for  a 
whole  silly  week,  all  for  — " 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  choking  with  rage.  For 
awhile,  in  silence,  the  party  gazed  at  the  pitiful,  hideous 
monstrosity  that  had  once  been  a  man.  Then  the 
ever-practical  Redmond  proceeded,  with  the  aid  of 
%  Ia.rge  pebble,  to  burst,  strand  by  strand,  the  wire 
which  bound  the  stone  to  the  body. 

"That  stone,  too!"  said  the  doctor  darkly.    "Ser- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     237 

geant,  in  view  of  what  you've  been  telling  me,  there 
seems  something  very,  very  terrible  about  all  this. 
I  suppose  there's  absolutely  no  doubt  hi  your  mind  now, 
who—?" 

The  Irishman  jerked  out  a  great  oath.  "Doubt!" 
echoed  he  grimly,  "doubt!  So  little  doubt,  Docthor," 
added  he  hoarsely,  "that  we  go  get  'um  this  very  night." 

"Alas,  poor  Yorick!"  said  Yorke  sadly.  "Say, 
Burke!"  he  continued  in  an  awe-struck  voice  "this  is 
like  a  leaf  out  of  O'Brien's  book,  with  a  vengeance. 
You  remember  him,  that  cold-blooded  devil  who 
Pennycuik  nailed  up  in  the  Yukon  —  used  to  shoot 
'em  and  shove  their  bodies  under  the  ice?" 

Slavin  nodded  gloomily.  "At  Tagish,  ye  mane? 
Yeah!  I  'member  ut.  Penny  sure  did  some  good 
wurrk  on  that  case." 

Redmond  had  by  this  time  completed  his  gruesome 
task.  "There's  lots  of  these  blocks  lying  around 
Gully's,"  he  remarked,  "I've  seen  'em.  Place's  got 
a  stone  foundation.  Look  at  the  notches  he's  chipped 
in  this  one  —  to  keep  the  wire  from  slipping!" 

"Eyah!"  said  Slavin,  with  grimly-unconscious 
humour,  "Exhibit  B.  We  must  hang  on  to  ut,  heavy 
as  it  us  —  an'  th'  wire,  tu!  Well,  people,  we'd  betther 


238     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

shove  this  pore  shtiff  on  the  buckboard,  an'  beat  ut." 
He  turned  to  the  doctor's  laconic  factotum.  "Come  on, 
Lanky!"  he  said  briskly.  "Let's  go  hitch  up." 

Presently,  when  all  was  ready,  Slavin  took  the  lines 
and  the  coroner  climbed  up  beside  him.  The  rest  of 
the  party  followed  on  foot.  A  sombre,  strange  little 
procession  it  looked,  as  it  moved  slowly  westward  into 
the  dusky  blaze  of  a  blood-red  sunset.  In  the  hearts 
of  the  policemen  grim  resolve  was  not  unmixed  with 
certain  well-founded  forebodings,  as  they  fully  realized 
what  a  sinister,  dangerous  mission  lay  ahead  of  them 
that  night. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

'Twos  then  —  like  tiger  close  beset 
At  every  pass  with  toil  and  net, 
'Counter'd,  where'er  he  turns  his  glare, 
By  clashing  arms  and  torches'  flare, 
Who  meditates,  with  furious  bound, 
To  burst  on  hunter,  horse,  and  hound,  ^-^ 
'Twas  then  that  Bertram's  soul  arose,   • 
Prompting  to  rush  upon  his  foes. 

SCOTT 

THE  old  detachment  clock  struck  nine  wheezy 
notes.    Yorke  and  Redmond,  seated  at  a  table 
busily  engaged  in  cleaning  their  service  revolvers, 
glanced  up  at  each  other  sombrely. 

"Getting  near  time,"  muttered  the  former,  "the  moon 
should  be  up  soon  now.  Lanky,"  he  continued, 
addressing  that  individual  who  was  sitting  nearby, 
"what  are  you  and  the  Doctor  going  to  do?  Going 
back  to  Cow  Run  tonight,  or  what?" 

"Don't  think  it,"  replied  the  teamster  laconically. 
He  glanced  towards  the  open  door  and  assumed  a 
listening  attitude.  "Th'  Sarjint  an'  him's  out  there 
now — chewin'  th'  rag  'bout  it  — hark  to  'em!" 

239 


=840     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Ceasing  their  cleaning  operations  for  a  space,  the 
two  constables  listened  intently  to  the  raised  voices 
without.  "No!  no!  no!"  came  Slavin's  soft  brogue, 
in  tones  of  vehement  protest  to  something  the  coroner 
had  said,  "I  tell  yu'  'tis  not  right,  Docthor,  that  yu' 
shud  run  such  risk!  Wid  us  'tis  diff'runt  —  takin'  th' 
chances  av  life  an'  death  —  just  ord'nary  course  av 
juty » 

"Oh,  tut!  tut!  nonsense,  Sergeant,"  was  the  physi- 
cian's brisk  response.  "You  forget.  I've  taken  those 
same  chances  before,  too,  and,  by  Jove!  I  can  take 
'em  again!  All  things  considered,"  he  added  signifi- 
cantly, "seems  to  me  —  er  —  perhaps  just  as  well  I 
should  be  on  hand." 

Yorke  and  Redmond  exchanged  rueful  grins.  "The 
old  sport!"  quoth  the  latter  admiringly.  "Damme, 
but  I  must  say  the  Doc's  game!" 

"It's  the  old  'ex-service  spirit',"  said  Yorke  quietly, 
"rum  thing!  Always  seems  to  crop  out,  somehow,  when 
there's  real  trouble  on  hand." 

Nonchalantly  puffing  a  huge  cigar,  the  object  of 
their  remarks  presently  strolled  back  into  the  room, 
followed  by  the  sergeant.  "Behould  th'  'last  coort 
av  appeal/  Docthor,"  began  Slavin  majestically.  With 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     241 

a  whimsical  grin  he  indicated  his  subordinates. 
"Bhoys,"  he  explained,  "contrairy  tu  my  wishes,  th' 
Docthor  insists  on  comin'  wid  us  this  night.  Now  fwhat 
yez  know  'bout  that?" 

"Tried  to  shake  me!"  supplemented  that  gentleman 
tersely,  waving  his  cigar  at  the  last  speaker.  "What's 
this  court's  ruling?" 

A  stern  smile  flitted  over  Yorke's  high-bred  features. 
"Appeal  sustained,"  he  announced  decisively,  "eh, 
Reddy?" 

For  answer,  his  comrade  arose  and  silently  wrung 
the  doctor's  hand;  then,  without  show  of  emotion,  he 
resumed  his  seat  and  likewise  his  cleaning  operations. 
Yorke,  as  silently,  duplicated  his  comrade's  actions. 
The  ex-Naval  surgeon  said  nothing;  but  his  eyes 
glistened  strangely  as  he  dropped  into  an  easy  chair 
and  proceeded  to  envelope  himself  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke. 

Suddenly  the  nasal  voice  of  the  teamster,  Lanky 
Jones,  made  itself  heard.  "How  'bout  me?"  he 
drawled,  "ain't  I  in  on  this,  too?  I  kin  look  after  th' 
hawsses,  anyways,  fur  yeh!" 

"Arrah  thin!  hark  tu  um?"  said  Slavin,  in  mock 
despair.  "Docthor,  'tis  a  bad  example  ye're  settin'. 


242  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

All  right,  thin,  Lanky,  ye  shall  come,  an'  ye  wish  uk 
An'  as  man  tu  man  —  I  thank  ye!  We  will  all  go  a 
'moonlightin'  tugither.  Eyah!"  he  resumed  reminis- 
cently,  "many's  th'  toime  I  mind  me  ould  father  — 
God  rist  him!  — tellin'  th'  tales  av  thim  days,  whin 
times  was  harrd  in  Oireland,  an'  rints  wint  up  an'  th' 
pore  was  dhriven  well-nigh  desprit.  How  him  an'  his 
blood-cousin,  Tim  Moriarty,  lay  wan  night  for  an' 
ould  rapparee  av  a  landlord,  who'd  evicted  pore  Tim 
out  av  house  an'  home.  Tim  had  an'  ould  blundher- 
buss,  all  loaded  up  wid  bits  av  nales  an'  screws  an' 
such-like,  wid  a  terribul  big  charrge  av  powther  be- 
hint  ut.  Four  solid  hours  did  they  wait  for  um  — 
forninst  a  hedge  on  th'  road  he  had  tu  come  home 
by,  from  Ballymeen  Fair, 

"By  an'  by  they  hears  um  a-comin  .  .  .  a-hollerin' 
an'  laughin*  tu  umsilf,  an'  roarin'  an'  singin'  'Th' 
Jug  av  Potheen.'  Full  av  ut,  tu,  by  token  av  th'  voice 
av  um.  Tim  makes  all  ready  wid  th'  blundherbuss. 
All  av  a  suddint  tho',  th'  tchune  shtops,  an'  tho'  they 
waits  for  um  for  quite  a  toime,  he  niver  shows  up. 
By  an'  by  they  gets  fed  up  wid  lyin'  belly-down  in  th' 
soakin'  rain.  'H-mm!  mighty  quare!'  sez  me  father, 
*I  wonder  fwhat's  happened  tu  th'  pore  ould  ginthle- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     243 

man?'  'Let  us  go  luk  for  um?'  sez  Tim,  wid  blood  in 
his  oi, '  'tis  may  be  he's  on'y  shtoppin'  tu  take  another 
dhrink  out  av  th'  Jug.' 

"So,  up  th'  road  they  goes  a  piece,  till  they  comes 
tu  a  bog  at  th'  side  av  ut.  An'  there  they  finds  um  —  • 
head-first  shtuck  in  th'  bog  —  just  th'  tu  feet  av  um  - 
shtickin'  out  an'  which  boots  Tim  sez  he  can  swear  tu. 
'Begorrah ! '  sez  me  father,  'that  accounts  for  th'  tchune 
shtoppin'  so  suddint!  Let  us  luk  for  th'  Jug?'  Well, 
they  hunts  around  for  th'  Jug  awhile,  but  all  tiiey  finds 
is  his  ould  caubeen.  So  they  shtuck  that  on  wan  of  his 
feet,  an'  Tim,  he  pins  th'  warrant  av  evictmint  tu  ut, 
currsin'  somethin'  fierce  th'  whiles  bekase  he  was  done 
out  av  getthin'  a  shot  at  the  'uuld  rapparee  wid  th' 
blundherbuss." 

Slavin  shook  his  head  slowly  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  story.     "Eyah!"  he  said  wistfully,  "many's  th' 
toime  have  I  heard  me  father  tell  that  same  tale. 
They  must  have  been  shtirrin'   times,   thim!"     In 
characteristic    fashion   his   mood   suddenly   changed. 
His  face  hardened,  as  with  upraised  hand  he  silenced 
the   burst   of  laughter   he  had   provoked   from   his  ' 
hearers.     "Ginthlemen!"  he  resumed  quietly,  "we're  - 
none  av  us  cowards  here,  but  —  no  need  tu  remind 


244  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

yu'  —  fwhat  sort  av  a  man  we  are  goin'  up  against 
this  night." 

Unconsciously  he  drew  himself  up,  with  an  air  of 
simple,  rugged  dignity  that  well  became  his  grim  visage 
and  powerful  frame.  In  that  hour  of  impending  danger 
the  brave,  true,  kindly  heart  of  the  man  stood  revealed 
—  a  personality  which  endeared  him  to  Yorke  and  Red- 
mond beyond  any  ties  of  friendship  they  had  known. 

Slowly  he  repeated,  "we  are  none  av  us  cowards  here, 
but  —  remimber  Larry  Blake,  an'  that  pore  hobo 
shtiff  back  in  th'  shed  there.  An'  remimber  thim  dogs 
this  mornin'.  We  du  not  want  tu  undherrate  urn. 
We  du  not  want  tu  cop  ut  like  did  Wilde,  whin  he 
wint  tu  arrest  Charcoal;  or  Colebrook,  whin  he  tackled 
Almighty  Voice.  Maybe  he'll  just  come  a-yawnin'  tu 
th'  dhure,  wid  th'  dhrawlin'  English  spache  av  urn, 
sayin'  'Well,  bhoys,  an'  f what's  doin'?'  An'  yet  again 
' —  may  be  he's  all  nerves  af  ther  th'  bad  break  he  made 
in  front  av  us  this  mornin'  —  expectin'  us  —  eyah!  — 
waithin',  watchin'  belike,  wid  his  gun  in  his  fisht. 
Luk  at  th'  way  he  acted  afther  his  gun  play  —  leery 
as  hell.  .  .  ." 

"Yes!"  said  Yorke  thoughtfully,  "egad!  there  was 
something  darned  queer  in  the  way  he  acted,  all  right. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     245 

Guess  we'd  better  take  carbines  along,  eh,  Burke?  .  .  . 
in  case  we  get  let  in  for  a  man  hunt.  For  all  we  know, 
he  may  have  beat  it  already.  Another  thing  —  he 
may  start  hi  bucking  us  about  not  having  a  warrant 

—  just  to  gain  time?" 

Slavin  met  the  other's  suggestion  with  a  grim  nod  of 
acquiescence.  "Shure!  we'll  take  thim,"  he  said,  "but" 

—  his  jaw  set  ruthlessly  —  "if  I  wanst  get  my  grub- 
hooks  on  urn  .  .  .  why!    'tis  all  up!  — carbines,  or 
no  carbines  —  warrant  or  no  warrant.    Section  thirty 
av  th'  Code  covers  th'  warrant  bizness —  in  a  case 
like  this,  anyways.    Come  on,  thin,  bhoys,  saddle  up! 
An'  Lanky!  — yu  give  me  a  hand  wid  th'  team!  we 
must  be  getthin'!" 

Presently  all  was  in  readiness,  and  the  small,  well- 
armed  party  left  the  detachment  under  the  light  of  a 
brilliant  three-quarter  moon.  Slavin  led  in  the  police 
buckboard,  with  the  doctor  seated  beside  him,  and 
Lanky  Jones  crouched  behind  them.  Yorke  and  Red- 
mond rode  in  the  rear,  with  their  carbines  slung  at 
the  saddle-horn.  It  was  a  hazardous  mission  they 
were  bound  on,  as  they  all  fully  realized  now,  know- 
ing the  terribly  ruthless  character  of  the  man  they 
sought  to  apprehend. 


246  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Descending  the  grade  which  led  to  the  bend  of  the 
river  they  swung  due  east  at  a  smart  pace,  following  the 
winding  Lower  Trail.  This  last  road  ran  past  Gully's 
ranch,  which  lay  some  three  miles  distant.  As  they 
neared  their  objective  the  sergeant  slackened  his  team 
down  to  a  walking  pace. 

Suddenly  Redmond  tongue-clucked  to  himself  in 
absent  fashion.  The  sound  of  it  roused  Yorke  out  of 
the  sombre  reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

"What's  up,  Red?"  queried  he  waggishly,  in  a  low 
voice,  "dreaming  you're  taking  that  dive  again,  or 
what?" 

"No!"  muttered  George  abstractly  in  the  same  key. 
"I  was  thinking  what  a  rum,  unfathomable  old  beggar 
Slavin  is.  Fancy  him  springing  that  comical  old  yarn 
at  such  a  time  as  this?" 

"Ah!"  murmured  his  comrade  reflectively.  "When 
you  come  to  know  Burke  as  well  as  I  do  you'll  find 
he's  generally  got  some  motive  for  these  little  things  — 
blarney  and  all.  You  laughed,  didn't  you?  Guess 
we  all  of  us  gave  the  giddy  'ha !  ha ! '  Felt  quite  chipper 
after  it,  too,  the  bunch  of  us  ...  well  then?" 

"Sh-sh!"  came  the  sergeant's  back-flung,  guarded 
growl,  "quit  your  gab  there!  We're  gettin'  nigh,  bhoys 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     247 

—  here's  th'  brush  forninst  his  place  .  .  .  must  go 
mighty  quiet  an'  careful  now." 

Looming  up  dark  and  forbidding  ahead  of  them  they 
beheld  the  all-familiar  sight  of  the  huge,  shadowy 
thicket  of  pine  and  Balm  o'  Gilead  clumps  that  fringed 
the  west  end  of  Gully's  ranch.  Entering  its  gloomy 
depths,  they  felt  their  way  slowly  and  cautiously  along 
the  stump-dotted  trail.  At  intervals,  from  somewhere 
overhead,  came  the  weird,  depressing  hoot  of  a  long- 
eared  owl,  and,  seemingly  close  at  hand,  the  shrill, 
mocking  "ki-yip-yapping"  of  coyotes  echoed  sharply 
in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  Stray  patches  of  moonlight 
began  to  filter  upon  the  party  once  more  as  they 
gradually  neared  the  end  of  the  rough-hewn  avenue; 
the  thick  growth  of  pine  giving  place  to  scattered 
cotton-wood  clumps. 

Arriving  at  the  verge  of  the  timber  the  party  halted. 
There,  some  two  hundred  yards  distant,  upon  a  patch 
of  open  ground  partially  encircled  by  dense,  willow- 
scrub,  lay  a  ghostly-shadowed  cluster  of  ranch  build- 
ings. The  living  habitation  itself  stood  upon  a  slightly 
raised  knoll,  hard  upon  the  river-bank.  To  their 
nostrils  the  night  air  brought  the  strong,  not  unpleasant 
scent  of  cattle,  drifting  up  from  the  numerous  recum- 


248  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

bent  bovine  forms  which  dotted  the  ground  all  around 
the  ranch. 

Awhile  the  party  gazed  speculatively  at  the  habita- 
tion of  him  —  the  undoubted  perpetrator  of  the  deadly 
deeds  —  for  whom  they  had  sought  so  long.  The 
peaceful  aspect  of  their  moonlit  surroundings  sud- 
denly smote  the  minds  of  all  with  a  strange  sense 
of  unreality,  as  full  realization  of  the  sinister  import 
of  their  errand  came  home  to  them.  In  uncanny  tel- 
epathy with  their  disturbed  feelings  sounded  the  owl's 
derisive  hooting,  and  the  persistent  mocking  raillery 
of  the  coyotes. 

It  was  Slavin  who  broke  the  long,  tense  silence. 
"Damn  that  'Dismal  Jimmy'  owl!"  he  ejaculated 
testily,  in  a  low  tone  —  "an'  thim  ki-oots!  .  .  .  beg- 
gars all  seem  to  be  givin'  us  th'  ha!  ha!  as  if  they  knew. 
P'raps  he  has  beat  ut  on  us  afther  all?  .  .  .  'Tis  harrd 
lu  say  —  we  cannot  shpot  a  glim  from  this  side  — 
Winders  all  face  east.  Now!  luk  a-here,  all  av  yez!" 
He  turned  to  his  companions  with  a  grim,  determined 
face,  his  deep-set  eyes  glittering  ominously  in  the  light 
of  the  moon.  "Let's  get  things  cut-an'-dhried  behfure 
we  shtart  in,"  he  whispered.  "Whin  he  knows  th' 
jig's  up  —  that's  if  he  is  in  —  he  may  act  like  a  man  av 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     249 

sinse,  an'  agree  tu  come  peaceable  —  but  — "  and 
Slavin  shook  his  head  slowly  —  "if  he  refuses  .  .  . 
fwhy?  .  .  .  't'wud  be  straight  suicide  tu  attimpt  tu 
rush  um.  There's  on'y  wan  dhure.  Hidin'  in  th* 
dark  there,  wid  that  Luger  gun  av  his  coverin'  ut, 
we'd  shtand  no  show  at  all.  He'd  put  th'  whole  bunch 
av  us  out  av  business  —  in  as  many  shots,  behfure  a 
man  av'  us  got  a  chance  tu  put  fut  inside.  Now, 
let's  see!"  he  murmured  reflectively.  "Fwhat  is  th' 
lay  av  th'  shack  agin?  There's  —  " 

"The  door  and  two  of  the  windows  face  east"  in- 
terpolated Yorke,  softly  —  "living-room  and  kitchen  — • 
one  window  to  the  south  —  that's  his  bed-room." 

"Eyah!  that's  ut,"  whispered  the  sergeant,  "now  thin 
—  Lanky  —  du  yu'  shtay  right  here  wid  th'  harses. 
Kape  yu're  head  —  even  if  ye  du  hear  shootin'.  Du 
not  shtir  from  here  onless  ye  get  ordhers  from  wan  av 
us."  Turning  to  the  others  he  continued  in  a  sibilant 
hiss,  "Yu,  Reddy,  shlip  along  th'  edge  av  th'  brush 
here,  an'  over  th'  river-bank  onto  th'  shingle.  Kape 
well  down  an'  thread  careful  ontil  ye  come  forninst  th' 
back  winder.  Thin  pop  yu're  head  up  circumshpict 
an'  cover  ut  wid  yu're  carbine.  Use  good  judgmint 
tho';  none  av  us  want  tu  shtart  in  shootin'  onless  we're 


250  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

forced  tu  ut.  Ondher  th'  circumstances  'tis  best  we 
thry  an*  catch  um  alive." 

For  a  moment  Slavin  stared  after  Redmond's  crouch- 
ing form,  as  his  subordinate  disappeared  in  the  gloom. 
"Thrust  no  harm  comes  tu  th'  lad,"  he  muttered  ir- 
resolutely, "quick  as  a  flash  is  th'  bhoy  wid  his  head, 
eyah!  but  he's  inclined  tu  be  over  rash  at  toimes." 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,"  hissed  Yorke  reassuringly, 
"don't  you  get  worrying  over  him  making  any  bad 
breaks,  Burke.  He's  as  fly  as  they  make  'em." 

Presently  the  sergeant  faced  round  with  a  dreary 
sigh.  "Come  on  thin,  Docthor,"  he  murmured  heavily, 
"wid  me  an7  Yorke." 

Making  a  wide  detour  they  circled  the  ranch  and 
wormed  their  way  cautiously  through  the  dense  scrub 
on  its  eastern  side.  Suddenly,  with  a  warning  gesture 
to  his  companions,  the  sergeant  halted.  They  had 
reached  the  verge  of  the  scrub  and  the  front  of  the 
ranch-house  faced  them  —  barely  twenty  yards  distant. 
They  could  discern  a  faint  light  glimmering  around  the 
lower  edge  of  one  of  the  windows. 

"He  is  in!"  whispered  Slavin  exultantly.  "Blinds 
down  though.  'Tis  a  quare  custom  av  his.  Come  on 
thin,  Yorkey,  me  bould  second-in-command!  In  a 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     251 

mighty  few  short  minuts  we  shall  know"  —  his  jaw 
dropped  —  "fwhat  we  shall  know!  .  .  .  Arrah  thin, 
Docthor!" —  he  silenced  a  violent  protest  from  that 
adventurous  gentleman,  who  made  as  though  to  accom- 
pany them  —  "if  ye  wud  help  us  in  best  fashion — • 
shtay  right  here,  an'  mark  fwhat  comes  off.  If  we  shud 
happen  tu  get  ut  in  th'  neck  .  .  .  just  yu'  beat  ut 
back  tu  Lanky!  Ye  know  fwhat  tu  du  —  thin.  I'll 
lave  me  carbine  here  awhile." 

He  stepped  clear  of  the  brush  and,  revolver  in  hand, 
advanced  softly  upon  the  low,  one-story,  log-built 
dwelling.  Yorke  followed  a  few  steps  in  his  rear,  with 
his  carbine  held  in  readiness  at  the  "port-arms." 

Reaching  the  door,  the  sergeant  rapped  upon  it 
sharply.  Thti'3  was  no  response  from  within,  but  — 
the  light  vanished  on  the  instant.  Yorke  stepped 
warily  to  the  side  and  covered  the  door  with  his  weapon. 
A  few  tense  moments  passed,  and  then  Slavin  rapped 
again.  Heavy  footfalls  now  sounded,  approaching  the 
door  from  the  inside,  halted,  and  then,  through  the 
panels  came  Gully's  hollow,  booming  bass:  "Who's 
there?" 

"Shlavin  of  th'  Mounted  Police,  Gully.  Opin  up!  we 
wud  shpake  wid  ye." 


252 

"What  do  you  want?  What's  your  business  at  this 
hour  of  the  night?" 

"Fwhat  do  we  want?"  —  the  sergeant  uttered  a 
mirthless  chuckle  —  "fwhy  'tis  yu'  we  want,  Gully  — 
for  murdher!  Come  off  th'  perch,  man,  th'  jig's  up! 
There's  a  bunch  av  us  here  —  we've  got  yu're  shack  - 
covered  properly  —  wid  carbines  —  north,  east,  south, 
an'  west  —  ye  can  pull  nothin'  off.  Come  now!  will 
ye  pitch  up  an'  act  reasonable?  'Tis  no  manner  av 
use  ye  shtartin'  in  tu  buck  th'  Force.  Juty's  juty  —  ye 
know  that." 

"Have  you  got  a  warrant,  Sergeant?" 

"Eyah!"  came  Slavin's  sinister  growl.  "We've  bin 
fishin',  Gully,  up  in  th'  big  pool  be3'ant.  Well  ye  must 
know  that  pool.  Fwhat  we  caught  there  is  our  warrant. 
Opin  up  now,  will  ye?  else  we  bust  yu're  dhure  in!" 

"Slavin —  Sergeant!     You  and  Yorke  whom  I've 
known  all  this  time  —  good  fellows"  —  the  deep,  im* 
ploring  tones  faltered  slightly  —  "do  not  push  me  to  it,^ 
man!     You  and  your  men  go  away  and  leave  me  in  ' 
peace  this  night.    Christ  knows!  I  don't  want  to  do  it 
but  —  if  you  persist  in  forcing  an  entrance  in  here 
without  a  warrant  —  why!  I'll  pull  on  your  crowd  till 
there's  not  a  man  left." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     253 

"Gully!"  the  sergeant's  voice  shook  with  passion  at 
the  other's  threat,  "ye  bloody  murdherin'  dog!  Ye 
dhirty  back-av-th'-head  gun-artist!  Thryin'  for 
tu  come  th'  'good- feller'  over  us  av  th'  Mounted! 
There's  on'y  wan  answer  tu  that,  an'  ye  know  uti 
Now,  will  ye  opin  up  this  dhure,  or  I'll  bust  her 
down!" 

And,  as  if  to  enforce  his  command,  Slavin  set 
his  huge  shoulder  against  the  door  and  gave  a  heave 
which  caused  the  stout  wood  to  crack  ominously. 

"Look  out,  Burke!"  cried  Yorke  suddenly.  His 
right  arm  shot  out  and  jerked  the  maddened  Irishman 
violently  towards  him.  His  hasty  action  was  only 
just  in  time. 

Bang!  bang!  Two  muffled  shots  detonated  within, 
and  white  splinters  flew  from  a  spot  in  the  door  covered 
a  moment  before  by  the  sergeant's  broad  breast.  With 
a  startled  oath  Slavin  flung  up  his  gun,  as  if  to  fire 
back;  but  Yorke  clutched  his  arm  and  arrested  the 
action. 

"No,  no,  Burke!"  he  hissed  warningly,  "no  use  doing 
that!  You  bet  he's  not  there  now.  Lying  'doggo'  be' 
hind  the  logs,  most  likely.  You'd  only  blow  a  hole  in 
the  door  that  he  could  pick  us  off  through  after.  We're 


254  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

proper  marks  in  the  moonlight  here!  Let's  back  up, 
and  keep  the  front  covered." 

Slavin,  balked  of  his  prey,  rumbled  in  his  throat 
awhile,  like  some  huge  bear;  then,  adopting  Yorke's 
suggestion,  he  slowly  backed  up  with  the  latter  to  the 
sheltering  brush,  where  they  rejoined  the  expectant, 
anxious  doctor. 

"Hit,  either  of  you?"  he  enquired  tersely. 

Yorke  replied  in  the  negative.  "Mighty  close  shave 
for  Burke  here,  though"  he  added,  "lucky  I  heard 
Gully  cocking  that  blasted  Luger  of  his."  He  uttered 
a  suppressed  chuckle,  "Burke's  always  one  to  go 
cautioning  others,  and  then  lose  his  temper  and  ex- 
pose himself." 

For  some  few  minutes  they  canvassed  the  situation 
in  tense  whispers,  lying  prone  in  the  brush  with  their 
carbines  covering  their  objective. 

"Sh-sh!"  hissed  the  doctor  suddenly.     "Hark!" 

With  all  their  faculties  on  the  stretch,  they  held 
their  breaths  and  listened  intently.  In  the  stillness 
they  heard  the  unmistakable  noise  as  of  a  window 
being  cautiously  lifted.  The  sound  came  from  the 
southern  end  of  the  building. 

Then  they  heard  Redmond's  voice  ring  out  sharply 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     255 

from  the  bank:  "No  use,  Gully!  I've  got  you  covered! 
You  can't  make  it  from  there!  You'd  better  give  in, 
man." 

There  was  an  instant's  silence,  then  —  crack !  came 
the  crisp  report  of  the  Luger.  It  was  answered  by  the 
deep,  reverberating  bang!  of  a  carbine,  and  the  crash 
of  splintered  glass  and  woodwork  was  followed  by  a 
boyish  laugh. 

"Told  you  Reddy  was  there  with  the  goods!"  re- 
marked Yorke,  triumphantly,  to  his  superior,  ""don't 
suppose  he  got  him  though  —  Gully's  too  fly  —  he'd 
duck  into  shelter  the  instant  he'd  fired.  I'll  bet  he's 
doing  some  tall  thinking  just  now.  Beggar's  between 
the  devil  and  the  deep  sea  —  properly.  He'll  chuck  up 
the  sponge  just  now,  you'll  see." 

"Eyah!"  agreed  Slavin,  with  an  oath,  'Tie's  ur> 
against  it.  But  Reddy  down  there  —  I  du  not  like  th? 
idea  av  th'  bhoy  bein'  all  alone.  Yorkey,  yu'  shlink 
thru'  th'  brush  an'  down  th'  bank  an'  kape  um  company 
awhile.  Th'  Docthor  an'  me'll  kape  th'  front  here 
covered." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Yorke,  after  first  challenging 
Redmond  cautiously,  crept  up  beside  his  comrade  below 
the  sheltering  river-bank. 


256  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Did  you  get  him?"  he  queried  in  a  tense  whisper. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  muttered  Redmond  disconso- 
lately, "but  —  he  d d  near  got  me  —  look!" 

He  exhibited  his  Stetson  hat.  A  clean  bullet  per- 
foration showed  in  the  pinched-up  top.  "I  could  have 
got  him  —  easy,"  he  added,  "when  he  first  opened  the 
window.  Wish  I  had,  now  —  but  you  know  what 
Burke  said  —  about  getting  Mm  alive  —  I  only  loosed 
off  after  he'd  thrown  down  on  me.  I  was  scared  for 
you  and  Burke,  though!  I  could  see  you  both  backing 
up  —  after  he'd  shot  through  the  door." 

Bang!  A  dull,  muffled  report  detonated  within  the 
building.  The  ominous  echoes  gradually  died  away, 
and  the  stillness  of  the  night  settled  over  all  once  more. 

The  crouching  policemen  stared  at  each  other 
strangely.  "Hear  that?"  ejaculated  Redmond,  with  a 

startled  oath,  "By  G d!  he's  shot  himself!  must 

have  —  it  sounded  muffled.  ...  All  over!  Ill  bet 
his  brains  — " 

He  broke  off  short  and,  shoving  the  barrel  of  his 
carbine  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  he  commenced  to 
clamber  up.  "Wait  a  second!  .  .  .  Good  God,  Red! 
don't  do  that!"  snarled  Yorke  warningly.  "He's  as 
cunning  as  a  blasted  lobo.  May  be  it's  only  a  tr  —  " 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     257 

The  entreaty  died  in  his  throat.  Crack!  A  spurt 
of  flame  shot  from  the  opened  window,  and  Redmond, 
with  a  gasping  exclamation  of  rage  and  pain,  toppled 
backwards  onto  the  shingle,  his  carbine  clattering 
down  beside  him.  Fearful  of  relaxing  his  vigilance  even 
at  this  crisis,  the  maddened  Yorke  flung  up  his  weapon 
and  sent  shot  after  shot  crashing  through  the  open 
casement.  All  could  hear  the  smashing,  rending  sounds 
of  havoc  his  bullets  were  creating  within. 

"Doctor!"  he  shouted.  "Oh,  Doctor!  Come  on 
round  quick!"  In  a  hoarse  aside  he  spat  out  fever- 
ishly, "Red!  Red!  my  old  son!  .  .  .  hit  bad?  Where'd 
you  get  it?" 

"Shoulder!  Oh-h!"  gasped  poor  Redmond,  moan- 
ing and  rolling  on  the  shingle  in  his  agony,  "Oh,  Christ, 
it  hurts!" 

There  came  a  crashing  in  the  undergrowth  on  their 
right,  and  presently  a  crouching  form  came  creeping 
rapidly  towards  them  under  cover  of  the  sheltering 
bank.  In  a  terse  aside  Yorke  acquainted  the  doctor 
with  the  details  of  his  comrade's  mischance,  keeping 
a  wary  eye  meanwhile  on  the  window.  The  ex-naval 
surgeon  wasted  no  time  in  unnecessary  question  or 
comment,  but  with  the  grim  composure  of  an  old  cam- 

•    •  -:v, 


258  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

paigner  swiftly  proceeded  to  render  first  aid  to  the 
wounded  man. 

"Right  shoulder  —  low  down!"  he  presently  vouch- 
safed to  the  anxious  Yorke.  "Trust  it's  missed  the 
lung!  .  .  .  can't  tell  yet!  ...  I  must  get  him  away 
the  best  way  I  can.  No!  .  .  .  don't  move,  Yorke! 
You  keep  on  your  mark!  I  can  pack  him  I  think. 
I'll  get  him  to  the  buckboard  somehow.  This  is  going 
to  be  a  long  siege,  I'm  thinking.  You'll  be  getting 
reinforcements  later.  Slavin  told  me  to  send  for  them." 

Bang!  crash!  The  crisp  sounds  of  splintering  wood- 
work on  the  east  side  of  the  shack  denoted  the  fact  of 
their  quarry  apparently  attempting  a  second  escape 
from  the  front  entrance.  Unaided,  the  doctor  cleverly 
executed  the  professional  fire-fighter's  trick  of  raising, 
balancing  on  the  back,  and  carrying  an  unconscious 
human  body.  With  an  overwhelming  feeling  of  relief, 
not  unmixed  with  admiration,  at  the  other's  gameness, 
Yorke  watched  him  stagger  away  in  the  gloom,  bearing 
poor  George  upon  his  bowed  shoulders. 

His  momentary  lack  of  vigilance  proved  well-nigh 
his  own  undoing,  also.  Crack!  spat  the  Luger  again 
from  the  window.  His  hat  whirled  from  his  head, 
but  he  kept  his  presence  of  mind.  It  was  not  the  first 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     259 

time  by  many  that  Yorke  had  been  under  fire.  Duck- 
ing down  on  the  instant,  he  moved  swiftly  three  paces 
to  his  right,  and  then,  finger  on  trigger,  he  suddenly 
jerked  upright  and  sent  two  more  shots  crashing 
through  the  aperture. 

"Mark-er!"  he  called  out  mockingly.  "Signal  a 
miss,  mark-er!  Ding-dong!  You'll  get  tired  of  it  be- 
fore we  do,  Gully!  You'd  better  give  up  the  ghost, 
man!" 

His  grim  sarcasm  failing  to  draw  further  fire  from 
his  desperate  opponent,  the  senior  constable  reloaded 
wearily  and  settled  down  to  what  promised  to  be  a 
long,  danger-fraught  vigil. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

He  "went  out,"  poor  Gus,  at  the  break  o'  day~ 
Oh!  —  IKS  kindly  ways,  and  his  cheery  facet 
But  .  .  .  the  Lord  gave,  and  hath  taken  away, 
Hark  I  sounds  "The  Last  Post,"  Requicscat  in  Pace! 

"THE  LAST  POST" 

SLOWLY  the  night  dragged  through  for  the  two 
grim,  haggard  sentinels.  Thrice  during  their 
vigil  had  their  desperate  quarry  exercised  his 
marksmanship  upon  them  with  his  deadly  Luger. 
Seemingly  only  by  a  miracle  did  they  escape 
each  time.  The  sergeant  had  his  hat  perforated 
in  similar  fashion  to  his  companions.  Yorke  had  a 
shoulder-strap  torn  from  his  stable-jacket.  Adroitly 
shifting  their  positions  each  time  he  fired,  they  greeted 
his  shots  with  such  withering  blasts  of  carbine  fire 
that  they  finally  silenced  their  enemy's  battery. 
Throughout  he  had  remained  as  mute  as  a  trapped  wolf. 
Only  an  occasional  cough  indicated  that  so  far, 
apparently,  he  was  unharmed  and,  like  them,  still 
-grimly  on  the  alert. 

260 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     261 

Relief  came  to  the  two  besiegers  with  the  first 
streaks  of  dawn.  Dr.  Cox,  with  almost  superhuman 
efforts,  had  somehow  managed  to  reach  Lanky  Jones 
and  the  buckboard  with  the  wounded  Redmond. 
Swiftly  conveying  the  latter  back  to  the  detachment, 
the  physician  had  immediately  got  in  touch  with  the 
night-operator  at  the  station,  and  also  MacDavid. 

And  now,  guided  by  that  old  pioneer,  Inspector 
Kilbride  arrived  upon  the  scene  with  an  armed  party 
from  the  Post.  They  had  been  rushed  up  by  a  special 
train,  which  had  been  flagged  by  MacDavid  at  the 
nearest  objective  point  to  Gully's  ranch. 

Swiftly  and  warily  they  skirmished  towards  their 
objective.  Half  of  the  party,  under  a  sergeant,  crept 
along  below  the  sheltering  river  bank  where  they  soon 
joined  the  wearied,  but  still  vigilant,  Yorke.  The 
rest,  under  the  inspector,  making  a  wide  detour  of  the 
ranch,  gained  the  brush  on  its  eastern  side.  Among 
this  last  party  were  Hardy,  McSporran  and 
McCullough.  In  extended  order  they  glided  through 
the  thick  scrub  and,  reaching  its  fringe,  flung  them- 
selves prone  with  their  carbines  held  in  readiness. 

The  inspector  gradually  wormed  himself  up  beside 
Slavin  who,  in  a  few  tense  whispers,  acquainted  his 


262  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

superior  with  all  details  of  the  situation.  Full  well, 
both  men  realized  what  a  perilous  spot  it  was,  for  all 
concerned,  on  the  eastern  front  of  the  shack.  Straining 
their  eyes  in  the  gray,  ghostly  gloom  they  could  just 
discern  an  open  casement.  Apparently  it  was  from 
this  well-sheltered  embrasure  that  Gully  had  pre- 
viously attempted  to  pick  off  Slavin.  With  the  coming 
of  daylight  their  position  would  be  absolutely  untenable 
in  the  face  of  further  fire  from  the  enemy.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  they  retreated  further  into  the  scrub 
they  would  lose  sight  of  their  objective  altogether. 

So  much  Kilbride  intimated  to  the  sergeant  as  they 
held  whispered  consultation.  Also,  he  imparted  re- 
assuring news  anent  Redmond.  The  latter's  injury, 
though  serious,  was  not  a  mortal  hurt,  according  to  a 
report  from  MacDavid,  who  had  left  the  doctor  watch- 
ing his  patient  closely  at  the  detachment. 

Suddenly,  a  few  paces  to  the  right  of  where  they  lay, 
came  the  sound  of  one  of  the  party  stealthily  clearing 
his  throat.  Poor  fellow!  his  momentary  lack  of 
caution  proved  to  be  his  death  warrant. 

Crack!  A  spurt  of  flame  leapt  from  the  velvety- 
black  square  of  casement.  The  horrid,  unforgetable 
cry  of  a  man  wounded  unto  death  echoed  the  shot, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     263 

and  the  startled  besiegers  could  hear  their  comrade 
threshing  around  amongst  the  dead  leaves  in  his  agony. 

"Steady,  men!  steady  now!  don't  expose  your- 
selves!" yelled  the  inspector.  "Fire  at  that  window, 
while  I  get  to  this  man!  — keep  me  covered!" 

His  commands  were  eagerly  obeyed.  Sheltered  by 
the  roaring  burst  of  carbine  fire  he  wriggled  sideways 
in  feverish  haste  and  eventually  gained  the  stricken 
man.  The  latter 's  convulsive  threshing  of  limbs  had 
ceased  and  an  instant's  examination  convinced  the  in- 
spector that  Gully's  random  shot  had  been  fatal. 

For  awhile  the  besiegers  poured  in  brisk  volleys 
upon  the  door  and  windows,  until  the  inspector  gave 
the  command  to  "Cease  Fire!"  Suddenly  —  mock- 
ingly—  hard  upon  the  last  shot,  the  echoes  of  which 
had  barely  died  away,  came  again  the  vicious,  whip- 
like  crack  of  the  Luger;  this  time  from  the  southern 
end  of  the  shack.  The  long-drawn,  nerve-shattering 
scream  of  the  first  casualty  was  duplicated,  and  a 
carbine  volley  crashed  from  the  river  bank. 

Then  up  from  the  attacking  party  swelled  an  ex- 
ceeding bitter,  angry  cry;  the  grim,  deadly  exaspera- 
tion of  men  goaded  to  the  point  of  recklessly  attempting 
ruthless  reprisal  upon  theii*  hidden  enemy.  With  a 


264  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

total  disregard  of  personal  safety  many  of  them  sprang 
up  out  of  cover,  as  if  to  charge  upon  their  hated 
objective. 

"As  you  were!  Back,  men!  back!"  rang  out  the 
deep,  imperious  voice  of  Kilbride.  The  stern  command 
checked  the  onrush  of  maddened  men.  "D'you  hear 
me?"  he  thundered,  "Take  cover  again  immediately  — 
everyone.  .  .  .  I'll  give  the  word  when  to  rush  him, 
and  that's  not  yet." 

It  said  much  for  the  discipline  of  the  Force  that 
his  commands  were  obeyed,  albeit  in  somewhat  muti- 
nous fashion.  The  inspector  turned  to  Slavin  with  fell 
eyes.  "Christ!"  he  said,  "there's  two  men  gone!  I 
won't  chance  any  more  lives  in  this  fashion!  I'll  give 
him  ten  minutes  to  surrender  and  if  he  don't  give  up 
the  ghost  then.  ...  I'll  do  what  an  emergency  like 
this  calls  for  —  what  I  came  prepared  to  do,  if  neces- 
sary. Sergeant!  take  charge  of  this  side  until  further 
orders;  I'm  going  down  the  bank  to  the  other  party 
awhile." 

He  stole  away  through  the  brush  and  presently  they 
all  heard  his  stentorian  tones  ring  out  from  the  river 
bank.  "Gully!  oh,  Gully!  It's  Inspector  Kilbride 
speaking.  I'll  give  you  ten  minutes  to  come  out  and 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     265 

give  yourself  up.  If  you  don't  —  well!  .  .  .  I've  got 
a  charge  of  dynamite  here  .  .  .  and  a  fuse,  and  I'll 
blow  you  and  your  shack  to  hell,  my  man.  It's  up  to 
you  —  now!" 

There  was  no  response  to  the  inspector's  ultimatum. 
Amidst  dead  silence  the  prescribed  time  slowly  passed. 
Fifteen  minutes  —  then,  a  gasping  murmur  of  excite- 
ment arose  from  those  on  the  eastern  front,  as  in  the 
rapidly  whitening  dawn  they  saw  Kilbride  suddenly 
reappear  around  the  northern  and  blank  end  of  the 
building.  For  some  few  moments  they  watched  his 
actions  in  awe-struck,  breathless  silence  as,  with  bent 
back,  he  busied  himself  with  his  dangerous  task. 

Presently  he  straightened  up.  "Now!  Look  out, 
everybody!"  he  bawled.  He  struck  a  match  and 
applied  it  to  something  that  immediately  began  to 
splutter,  and  then  he  retreated  a  safe  distance  north- 
ward. All  eyes  were  glued,  as  if  fascinated,  to  the 
ideadly,  sputtering  fuse.  Soon  came  the  dull,  muffled 
roar  of  an  explosion.  The  walls  of  the  building  sagged 
outwards,  the  roof  caved  in,  and  the  whole  structure 
seemed  to  collapse  like  a  pack  of  cards,  amid  a  cloud 
of  dust. 

For  some  few  seconds  the  party  gazed  fearfully  at  the 


266  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

work  of  destruction;  then  a  loud  cheer  went  up,  and 
with  one  accord  all  dashed  forward,  filled  with  eager, 
morbid  curiosity  as  to  what  they  might  find  buried 
beneath  the  ruins. 

Suddenly,  midway  between  the  brush  and  their  ob- 
jective they  checked  their  onrush  and  halted,  staring 
in  speechless  amazement.  Pushing  his  way  up, 
apparently  from  some  hole  beneath  a  pile  of  debris, 
appeared  the  figure  of  a  huge  man. 

In  their  excitement  the  attackers  had  overlooked  the 
possibility  of  a  cellar  existing  below  the  stone  founda- 
tion of  the  dwelling.  At  this  juncture  the  party  from 
the  river  bank  was  rapidly  approaching  the  ruins  from 
its  western  side.  The  posse  was  in  a  dilemma.  Neither 
party  dare  fire  at  its  quarry  between  them  for  fear  of 
hitting  each  other. 

Gully  apparently  either  did  not  realize  the  situation 
or  did  not  care.  With  face  convulsed  with  passion,  be- 
yond all  semblance  to  a  human  being,  he  crouched  and 
rushed  the  party  on  the  eastern  side  of  his  wrecked 
home,  firing  as  he  came.  Badly  hit,  several  of  his 
assailants  were  speedily  hor  de  combat,  among  them, 
Hardy  and  McCullough.  The  whole  incident  happened 
in  quicker  time  than  it  takes  to  relate. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     267 

Then,  from  out  the  startled  crowd  there  sprang  a 
man.  It  was  Slavin.  His  hour  had  come.  There 
was  something  appalling  in  the  spectacle  of  the  two 
gigantic  men  rushing  thus  upon  each  other.  Suddenly, 
Gully  tripped  over  a  log  and  fell  headlong,  his  deadly 
gun  flying  from  his  grasp.  With  a  sort  of  uncanny, 
cat-like  agility  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  strove  to 
recover  his  weapon.  He  was  a  fraction  of  a  second  too 
late.  A  kick  from  Slavin  sent  it  whirling  several  yards 
away,  and  the  next  moment  the  opponents  were  upon 
each  other. 

At  the  first  onslaught  the  issue  of  the  combat  seemed 
doubtful.  The  ex-sheriff  was  no  wrestler  like  Slavin, 
but  he  speedily  demonstrated  that  he  was  a  boxer,  as 
well  as  a  gun-man.  Cleverly  eluding  the  grasp  of  his 
powerful  assailant  for  the  moment,  twice  he  rocked 
Slavin's  head  back  with  fearful  left  and  right  swings 
to  the  jaw.  With  a  bestial  rumbling  in  his  throat,  the 
sergeant  countered  with  a  pile-driving  punch  to  the 
other's  heart;  then,  ducking  his  head  to  avoid  further 
punishment,  he  grappled  with  the  murderer.  Roaring 
inarticulately  in  their  Berserker  rage,  the  pair 
bore  a  closer  resemblance  to  a  bear  and  a  gorilla  than 
men. 


268  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Once  in  that  terrible  grip,  however,  Gully,  big  and 
powerful  man  though  he  was,  had  not  the  slightest 
chance  with  a  wrestler  of  Slavin's  ability.  Shifting 
rapidly  from  one  cruel  hold  to  another  the  huge  Irish- 
man presently  whirled  his  antagonist  up  over  his  hip 
and  sent  him  crashing  to  the  ground,  face  downwards. 
Then,  kneeling  upon  the  neck  of  his  struggling  and 
blaspheming  victim,  he  held  him  down  until  handcuffs 
finally  imprisoned  the  enormous  wrists,  and  leg-irons 
the  ankles. 

The  grim,  long-protracted  duel  was  over  at  last. 
But  at  lamentable  cost.  Two  men  killed  outright,  and 
five  badly  wounded  had  been  the  deadly  toll  exacted 
by  Gully  in  his  last,  desperate  stand. 

The  rays  of  the  early  morning  shone  upon  a  strange 
and  solemn  scene.  Gully,  guarded  by  two  constables, 
was  seated  upon  the  stone  foundation  that  marked  the 
site  of  his  wrecked  dwelling.  Head  in  hands,  sunk  in 
a  sort  of  stupor,  his  attitude  portrayed  that  of  a  man 
from  whom  all  earthly  hope  had  fled.  Some  distance 
away  lay  the  wounded  men,  being  roughly,  but  sym- 
pathetically attended  to  by  their  comrades.  All  were 
awaiting  now  the  arrival  of  the  coroner,  and  also  the 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     269 

means  of  transportation  which  the  inspector  had 
ordered  MacDavid  to  requisition  for  them. 

Presently  came  those  who  reverently  bore  the  dead 
upon  hastily-constructed  stretchers.  Silently  Inspec- 
tor Kilbride  indicated  a  spot  near  the  fringe  of  brush; 
and  there,  side  by  side,  they  laid  them  down,  covering 
the  bodies  with  a  blanket  dragged  from  the  debris  of 
the  shattered  dwelling. 

Bare-headed,  the  rest  of  the  party  gathered  around 
their  officer.  Long  and  sadly  Kilbride  gazed  down 
upon  the  still  forms  outlined  under  their  covering. 
Twice  he  essayed  to  speak,  but  each  time  his  voice 
failed  him. 

"Men!"  he  said  at  last  huskily,  as  if  to  himself. 
"Men!  is  this  what  I  have  brought  you  into?  ...  Is 
this  —  " 

He  choked,  and  was  silent  awhile;  then;  "Obi" 
cried  he  suddenly,  "God  knows!  .  .  .  under  the  cir- 
cumstances I  used  the  best  judgment  I  —  " 

But  Slavin  broke  in  and  laid  a  tremulous  'hand  on 
his  superior's  shoulder.  "No!  no!  Sorr!  .  .  .  hush! 
for  th'  love  av  Christ!  ...  Ye  must  not  —  '  the 
soft  Hibernian  brogue  sank  to  a  gentle  hush  —  "niver 
fear  ...  for  thim  that's  died  doin'  their  juty!  .  .  . 


270  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

'Tis  th'  Peace,  Sorr  —  th'  Peace  everlastin'  .  .  .,  BOW, 
for  Hornsby  an'  Wade.  They  were  good  men.  .  .  ." 

Yorke  bent  down  and,  drawing  back  a  fold  of  the 
blanket,  exposed  two  still  white  faces.  In  the  centre 
of  Hornsby's  forehead  all  beheld  Gully's  terrible  sign- 
manual.  Wade  had  been  shot  through  the  throat. 

"Hornsby!"  gasped  Yorke  brokenly,  "poor  old  Gus 
Hornsby!"  .  .  .  He  turned  a  tired,  drawn  face  up  to 
Slavin's.  "He  was  with  us  in  the  Yukon,  Burke. 
Remember  how  we  used  to  rag  him  when  he  first  came 
to  us  as  a  cheechaco  buck?  But  the  poor  beggar  never 
used  to  get  sore  over  it  ...  always  seemed 
sort  of  ...  patient  .  .  .  and  happy  ...  no  matter 
how  we  joshed  him.  .  .  ." 

Gently  he  replaced  the  blanket,  stared  stupidly  a 
moment  at  the  grim,  haggard  face  of  his  sergeant,  then 
he  burst  out  crying  and  wandered  away  from  the  sad 
scene. 


CHAPTER  XV 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  people's  eyelids  kiss'd, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist; 
And  Eugene  Aram  walk'd  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 

"THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM" 

SLOWLY  the  memorable  June  day  had  drawn  to  a 
close,  and  now  darkness  had  set  in  and  the  moon 
shone  brightly  down  upon  the  old  detachment  of 
Davidsburg.    It  had  been  a  strenuous  day  for  Inspector 
Kilbride  and  his  subordinates,  as  many  details  of  the 
eventful  case  had  to  be  arranged  ere  they  could  leave 
with  their  prisoner  on  the  night's  train  for  the  Post. 

The  inspector's  first  care,  naturally,  had  been  the 
slow  and  careful  conveyance  of  the  wounded  men 
(Redmond  included) — and  the  dead  —  down  to  the 
special  train  which  still  awaited  them  on  the  Davids- 
burg  siding.  The  bulk  of  the  party  departed  with 
them,  the  officer  retaining  Slavin,  Yorke,  and  McSpor- 

ran.   A  coroner's  inquest,  held  that  afternoon  upon  the 

271 


272  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

remains  of  the  unfortunate  hobo,  Drinkwater,  had  re»- 
suited  in  a  verdict  of  "wilful  murder"  being  returned 
against  Ruthven  Gully.  Two  days  later,  at  the  Post, 
similar  verdicts  were  rendered  in  the  cases  of  poor 
Hornsby  and  Wade. 

Throughout  the  day  Gully  had  remained  in  a  sort  of 
sullen,  brooding  stupor.  But  now,  with  the  coming  of 
night,  he  seemed  to  grow  restless  —  pacing  within  the 
narrow  confines  of  his  cell  like  unto  a  trapped  wolf, 
his  leg-shackles  clanking  at  every  turn.  Seated  out- 
side the  barred  door,  McSporran  maintained  a  close 
and  vigilant  guard.  It  wanted  four  hours  yet  until 
train  time  and  inside  the  living-room  the  inspector, 
Slavin,  and  Yorke  were  beguiling  the  interval  in  low- 
voiced  conversation. 

"Strange  thing,  Sergeant,"  remarked  Kilbride 
musingly,  "I  can't  place  him  now,  but  I'll  swear  I've 
seen  this  man,  Gully,  before;  somewhere  back  of 
beyond,  I  guess.  I've  been  in  some  queer  holes  and 
corners  on  this  globe  in  my  time  —  long  before  I 
ever  took  on  the  Force.  Seems  he  has,  too,  from  what 

you  and  Yorke  have  told  me.  D d  strange!  .  .  . 

I've  got  a  fairly  good  memory  for  faces  but  —  " 

He  broke  off  and  looked  enquiringly  at  McSporran, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     273 

who  had  silently  entered  just  then.  "What  is  Tt, 
McSporran?" 

"Gully,  Sirr!"  responded  the  constable,  saluting. 
"He  wad  wish  tu  speak  wi'  ye,  Sirr." 

The  inspector's  face  hardened,  and  his  steely  eyes 
glittered  strangely  as  he  heard  the  news.  For  a  brief 
space  he  remained,  chin  in  hand,  in  deep  thought;  then, 
rising,  he  sauntered  slowly  over  to  the  prisoner's  cell. 

"What  is  it  you  want,  Gully?"  he  said  quietly. 

"Kilbride  —  Inspector!"  came  the  great  rumbling 
bass  through  the  bars.  "If  you  keep  me  cooped  up  in 
this  pen  much  longer  ...  I  tell  you!  .  .  .  you'll 
have  me  slinging  loose  in  the  head  —  altogether! "  He 
uttered  a  mirthless,  wolf-like  bark  of  a  laugh.  "My 
ears  are  keener  than  your  memory  —  I  heard  you 
speaking  just  now.  Listen!  — "a  curiously  wistful 
note  crept  into  his  deep  tones,  for  the  inspector  had 
made  an  angry,  impatient  gesture  —  "Listen,  Kilbride! 
.  .  .  I'm  gone  up  —  I  know  it  —  therefore,  if  I  sing 
my  'swan  song'  now  or  later,  it  can  matter  little  one 
way  or  the  other;  and  I  would  rather  sing  it  to  you 
and  Slavin  and  Yorke  there  than  to  anyone  else.  Be- 
fore I  am  through,  you  all  may  —  shall  we  say  — 
p'raps  judge  me  a  trifle  less  harshly  than  you  do  now. 


274  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Regard  this  as  ...  practically  the  last  request  of  a 
man  who  is  as  good  as  dying  .  .  .  that  —  I  be  allowed 
to  sit  amongst  you  once  more  .  .  .  and  talk,  and  talk, 
and  ta  —  " 

His  voice  broke,  and  he  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 
For  some  few  seconds  the  inspector  remained  motion- 
less, with  bent  head,  just  looking  —  and  looking  —  in 
deep,  reflective  silence  at  the  doomed  man  who  im- 
portuned him. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  wish  to  make  a  state- 
ment, Gully?"  he  said,  in  even,  passionless  tones. 
"Remember!  — you've  been  charged  and  warned, 
tnan  —  whatever  you  say'll  be  used  in  evidence  against 
you  at  your  trial." 

The  other,  hesitating  a  moment,  swallowed  ner- 
vously in  his  agitation. 

"Yes,"  he  said  huskily,  "I  know  —  but  that's  all 
right!  ...  As  I  said  before  —  it  can  make  little  or 
no  difference  ...  in  my  case.  .  .  ." 

Turning,  Kilbride  silently  motioned  to  McSporran  to 
unlock  the  cell-door. 

The  huge  manacled  prisoner  emerged,  and  shuffled 
awkwardly  towards  the  inner  room,  closely  attended 
by  his  armed  escort. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     275 

Slavin  and  Yorke,  seated  together  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  arose  as  Gully  entered.  Standing  curiously  still, 
as  if  carved  in  stone,  their  bitter  eyes  alone  betraying 
their  emotions,  silently  they  gazed  at  the  huge,  gaunt, 
unkempt  figure  that  came  shambling  towards  them.  • 

Gully  halted  and  stared  long  and  fixedly  at  the  r 
relentless  faces  of  the  two  men  whose  grim,  dogged  vigi- 
lance had  led  to  his  undoing.  Over  his  blood-streaked, 
haggard  face  there  swept  the  peculiar  ruthless  smile 
which  they  knew  so  well;  and  he  raised  his  manacled 
hands  in  a  semblance  of  a  salute. 

"Morituri  te  salutant!"  he  muttered  in  his  harsh, 
growling  bass  —  the  speech  nevertheless  of  an  educated 
man. 

"Eh,  fwhat?"  queried  Slavin  vaguely.  The  classical 
allusion  was  lost  on  him,  but  Kilbride  and  Yorke  ex- 
changed a  grim,  meaning  smile  as  they  recalled  the 
ancient  formula  of  the  Roman  arena.  McSporran 
pushed  forward  a  chair,  into  which  Gully  dropped 
heavily.  Chin  cupped  in  hands,  and  elbows  resting  on 
knees  he  remained  for  a  space  in  an  attitude  of  pro- 
found thought.  The  inspector,  resuming  his  chair  at 
the  table,  motioned  his  subordinates  to  be  seated,  and  ' 
reached  forward  for  some  writing  materials. 


276  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"All  right,  now,  Gully  1"  he  began,  in  a  hard,  metallic 
tone.  "What  is  it  you  wish  to  say  ?  "  All  waited  expectantly. 

Apparently  with  an  effort  Gully  roused  himself  out 
of  the  deep  reverie  into  which  he  had  sunk,  and  for  a 
space  he  gazed  with  blood-shot  eyes  into  the  calm, 
stern  face  of  his  questioner.  Then,  with  a  sort  of 
dreamy  sighing  ejaculation,  he  roused  himself  and, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  began  the  following  remark- 
able story.  He  spoke  in  a  recklessly  earnest  manner 
and  with  a  sort  of  deadly  composure  that  startled  and 
impressed  his  hearers  in  no  little  degree. 

"Listen,  Inspector,"  he  said.  "A  good  deal  of  the 
story  I'm  going  to  tell  you  has  no  bearing  on  the  — 
the  —  the  —  case  hi  hand.  There's  no  use  in  you 
taking  all  this  down.  I  understand  procedure"  —  he 
smiled  wanly  —  "therefore,  with  your  permission  I'll 
go  ahead,  and  you  can  construct  a  brief  statement  on 
your  own  lines  afterwards,  which  I  will  sign." 

Kilbride  bowed  his  head  in  assent  to  the  other's 
request. 

"The  name  I  bear  now,"  began  the  prisoner, — 
"  'Ruthven  Gully7  —  is  my  real  name,  though  knocking 
around  the  world  like  I've  been  since  I  was  a  kid  of 
sixteen,  and  the  many  queer  propositions  I've  been  up 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     277 

against  in  my  time,  why  —  I've  found  it  expedient  to 
use  various  aliases. 

"For  instance"  -  -  he  eyed  the  inspector  keenly  - 
"I  wasn't  known  as  'Gully'  that  time  Cronje  nailed  us 
all  at  Doornkop,  Kilbride,  in  'ninety-six.  .  .  ." 

Kilbride  uttered  a  startled  oath.  Shaken  out  of  his 
habitual  stern  composure  he  stared  at  the  man  before 
him  in  sheer  amazement.  "Good  God! "  he  cried,  "The 
*  Jameson  Raid!'  .  .  .  Now  I  know  you,  man! — you're 
• — you're  —  wait  a  bit!  I've  got  it  on  the  tip  of  my 
tongue  —  Mor  —  Mor  —  Mordaunt,  by  gad!  .  .  . 
that's  what  you  called  yourself  then.  Ever  since  I  sat 
with  you  on  that  case  I've  been  turning  it  over  in 
my  head  where  in  ever  I'd  fore-gathered  with  you 
before.  It  was  your  moustache  which  fooled  me  — 
you  were  clean-shaven  then.  .  .  Well,  Well!  .  .  ." 

He  was  silent  awhile,  overcome  by  the  discovery. 
"Aye!"  he  resumed  in  an  altered  voice,  "I've  got  good 
cause  to  remember  you,  Mor  —  Gully,  I  mean.  You 
certainly  saved  my  life  that  day  .  .  .  when  we  were 
lying  in  that  donga  together.  I  was  hit  pretty  bad, 
and  you  stood  'em  off.  You  were  a  wonderful  shot,  I 
recollect.  I  saw  you  flop  out  six  Doppers  —  one  after 
the  other." 


278  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

He  turned  to  Slavin.  "Sergeant!"  he  said  quietly, 
"You'd  better  leave  the  leg-irons  on,  but  remove  his 
handcuffs  —  for  the  time-being,  anyway.  .  .  ."  He 
addressed  himself  to  the  prisoner  with  a  sort  of  sad 
sternness.  "It's  little  I  can  do  for  you  now,  Gully  .  .  . 
but  I  can  do  that,  at  least.  .  .  ." 

Slavin  complied  with  his  officer's  request.  Gully's 
huge  chest  heaved  once,  and  he  bowed  his  head  in 
silent  acknowledgment  of  Kilbride's  act  of  leniency. 

"All  right!  go  ahead,  Gully!"  said  the  latter. 

The  prisoner  took  up  his  tale  anew.  "As  I  was  say- 
ing —  I  left  the  Old  Country  when  I  was  sixteen.  No 
need  to  drag  in  family  troubles,  but  .  .  .  that's 
why.  .  .  .  Well!  I  hit  for  the  States.  Montana  for  a 
start  off,  and  it  sure  was  a  tough  state  in  'seventy-four, 
I  can  tell  you.  That's  where  I  first  learned  to  handle  a 
gun.  I  knocked  around  between  there  and  Wyoming 
and  Arizona  for  about  nine  years,  and  during  that  time 
I  guess  I  tackled  nearly  every  kind  of  job  under  the 
sun,  but  I  punched  and  rode  for  range  outfits  mostly. 

"Then  I  was  struck  with  a  fancy  to  see  the  South, 
and  I  drifted  to  Virginia.  I'd  been  there  about  two 
years,  working  as  an  overseer  on  a  tobacco  plantation, 
when  I  got  a  letter  from  our  family's  solicitor  recalling 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     279 

me  home.  My  eldest  brother  had  died,  and  the  estate 
had  passed  on  to  me.  Where,  Inspector?  —  why,  it 
was  at  Castle  Brompton,  a  quiet  little  country  town  in 
Worcestershire. 

"Well!  I'd  had  a  pretty  rough  training  —  living  the 
life  of  a  roustabout  for  so  many  years,  and  I  guess  I  ' 
kind  of  ran  amuck  when  I  struck  home.  I  played 
ducks  and  drakes  with  the  estate,  and  the  end  of  it  was 
...  I  got  heavily  involved  in  debt.  There  seemed 
nothing  for  it  but  to  up-anchor,  and  to  sea  again  in 
my  shirt.  So,  my  fancy  next  took  me  to  Shanghai, 
where  I  obtained  a  poorly-paid  Civil  Service  job  — 
in  the  Customs.  I  stuck  that  for  about  a  year,  and 
then  I  pulled  out  —  disgusted.  The  next  place  I 
landed  up  in  was,  if  anything,  worse  —  the  Gold  Coast. 
From  there  I  drifted  to  the  Belgian  Congo.  I  was 
there  for  nearly  two  years  doing  —  well!  perhaps  it's 
best  for  me  not  to  enter  into  details  —  we'll  call  it 
'rubber.'  It's  a  cruel  country  that  —  one  that  a  man 
doesn't  exactly  stay  in  for  his  health,  anyway;  for  a 
bad  dose  of  fever  nearly  fixed  me.  It  made  me  fed  up 
with  the  climate  and  —  the  life.  So  I  pulled  out  of 
it  and  went  down  country  to  the  Transvaal.  That's 
how  I  came  to  get  mixed  up  in  'The  Raid/  Inspector. 


280  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

I  was  in  Jo 'burg  at  the  time  it  was  framed  up,  so  I 
threw  in  my  lot  with  the  rest  of  you. 
r  "Suddenly  I  had  an  overwhelming  desire  to  go  back 
to  the  States  and  the  range  life  again.  I  was  properly 
fed  up  with  Africa.  So  —  back  I  went  there  —  to 
Montana  again.  I  punched  for  one  or  two  cow-outfits 
awhile,  and  then  came  a  time  when  a  deputation  of 
citizens  came  and  put  it  up  to  me  if  I'd  take  on  the 

office  of  Deputy-Sheriff  for  County,  where  I 

happened  to  be  working.  I  suppose  the  fact  of  my 
being  a  little  more  handy  with  a  gun  than  most  had 
impressed  some  of  them.  Things  were  running  wild 
there  just  then,  and  for  awhile  I  tell  you,  I  was  up 
against  a  rather  dirty  proposition.  I  and  my  guns 
certainly  worked  overtime  for  a  stretch,  till  I  got 
matters  more  or  less  ship-shape.  I  had  the  backing  of 
the  best  people  in  the  community  luckily,  and  even- 
tually I  won  out. 

"Then  —  when  the  inevitable  reaction  set  in  with 
the  peaceable  times  that  followed,  somehow  I  managed 
to  get  in  bad  with  some  of  them.  They  had  no  more 
use  for  me  or  my  guns.  I  was  like  a  fish  out  of  water. 
I  decided  to  pull  out,  for  a  strange  hankering  to  see 
England  and  my  old  home  again  came  over  me.  So  I 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     281 

resigned  my  office  and  headed  back  to  the  Old 
Country.  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  in  his  narrative,  Gully  dropped  his 
head  in  his  hands  and  rocked  wearily  awhile  ere  con- 
tinuing haltingly:  "It  was  the  mistake  of  my  life — i 
ever  going  back  —  to  a  civilized  country.  For  a  time  I 
strove  to  conduct  myself  as  a  law-abiding  British  citi- 
zen—  to  conform  to  the  new  order  of  things,  but  — 
I  had  been  amongst  the  rough  stuff  too  long.  I 
was  out  of  my  sphere  entirely. 

"One  day,  hi  a  hotel  at  Leeds,  I  got  into  a  violent 
quarrel  with  a  man  —  fellow  of  the  name  of  Hammond. 
It  was  over  a  woman.  He  insulted  me  —  in  front  of 
a  crowd  of  men  at  that  —  and  finally  he  struck  me. 
Hitherto  I'd  taken  no  back-down  from  any  man  living, 
and  I  guess  I  forgot  myself  then  and  kind  of  ran 
amuck  —  fancied  I  was  back  in  Montana  again.  Conse- 
quence was  —  I  threw  down  on  him  in  front  of  this 
crowd  and  shot  him  dead. 

"Of  course  I  was  arrested  and  charged  with  murder 
in  the  first  degree;  but  as  it  was  adduced  at  my  trial 
that  I'd  received  a  certain  amount  of  provocation,  I 
was  sent  down  for  fifteen  years.  I'd  done  little  over 
six  months  of  my  time  in  Barmsworth  Prison  when  I 


282  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

and  two  of  my  fellow  convicts  framed  up  a  scheme 
to  escape.  It  takes  too  long  to  go  into  details  how  we 
worked  it.  I  made  my  get-away,  though  I  had  to 
abolish  a  poor  devil  of  a  warder  in  doing  so.  The  other 
two  lost  out.  One  got  shot  and  the  other  was  caught 
some  days  later  —  as  I  read  in  the  papers. 

"Well!  I  managed  to  reach  the  States  again,  and 
eventually  came  over  this  side  of  the  line.  As  I  had 
been  convicted  and  sentenced  under  the  alias  which 
I  had  adopted  while  in  England  —  my  real  name  never 
coming  out  —  I  resumed  my  name  of  Gully  again  when 
I  settled  down  here.  My  relatives,  what  few  I  possess, 
have  never  known  of  my  conviction  and  imprisonment. 
All  the  time  I  was  in  England  on  my  second  trip  I 
was  clean-shaven,  but  on  returning  to  the  States  I  let 
my  moustache  grow  once  more.  As  you  said,  Kilbride 
• —  it  is  a  very  effectual  disguise.  Will  one  of  you  give 
me  a  drink,  please?  My  mouth's  pretty  dry  with  all 
this  talking." 

Yorke  got  up  and  brought  him  a  glass  of  water,  and 
he  drank  it  down  with  a  murmur  of  thanks. 

"Now! "  he  said,  continuing  his  narrative:  "I'm  com- 
ing to  the  worst  part  of  all.  You'll  all  wonder  I've  not 
gone  mad  —  brooding;  but  I've  got  to  go  through  with 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     283 

it.  When  I  settled  down  here  I  honestly  did  struggle 
hard  to  live  down  my  past  and  start  afresh  with  a 
clean  sheet.  I  borrowed  some  money  from  an  old  ex- 
sheriff  friend  of  mine  in  Montana  —  which  loan,  by  the 
way,  I  have  paid  all  back  —  every  cent  —  and  bought" 
—  he  gazed  gloomily  at  Kilbride  —  "what  was  my 
home.  But  somehow  .  .  .  Fate  seems  to  have  dogged 
me  and  tripped  me  up  in  the  end.  Until  last  January 
everything  was  going  well  with  me.  As  Slavin  and 
Yorke  here  can  testify  ...  I  was  conducting  myself 
fairly  and  squarely  with  all  men. 

"Then  —  one  day  Yorke  brought  that  Blake  and 
Moran  case  up  in  front  of  me.  Both  of  these  men  I'd 
met  before,  but  they  didn't  recognize  me  again  —  not 
absolutely.  I  usually  contrived  to  keep  pretty  clear 
of  them  for  reasons  which  will  appear  obvious  later. 
I'm  coming  to  that.  Moran  I  recognised  as  a  former 
Montana  tough  who  used  to  hang  around  Havre  — 
bronco-buster,  cow-puncher,  and  tin-horn  by  turns. 
Many  a  time  I've  caught  him  sizing  me  up,  in  Cow 
Run  and  elsewhere  —  mighty  hard,  too,  but  he  never 
seemed  to  be  sure  of  me.  Once  he  did  chance  a  feeler, 
but  I  just  twirled  my  moustache,  a  la  Lord  Tomnoddy, 
and  bluffed  him  to  a  finish. 


284  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Larry  Blake"  —  a  ruthless  gleam  flickered  momen- 
tarily in  Gully's  deep-set,  shadowy  eyes  —  "Larry 
Blake,  I  recognized  as  the  son  of  the  Governor  of 
Barmsworth  Prison — old  Gavin  Blake.  Sometimes  this 
young  fellow  used  to  come  around  with  his  father, 
when  the  old  gentleman  was  making  his  daily  tour  of  - 
inspection.  I  well  remember  the  first  time  I  saw  him 
—  young  Larry.  I  was  chipping  stone  in  the  quarry, 
amongst  a  gang,  with  a  ball  and  chain  on.  I'd  been  in 
about  two  months  then.  The  Governor  was  showing 
some  visitors  around,  and  his  son  was  with  him.  They 
were  staring  at  us  like  people  do  at  wild  animals  hi 
a  show.  I  was  pointed  out  to  them,  and  my  recent 
crime  mentioned.  I  remember  young  Blake  eying  me 
with  especial  interest.  He  came  out  to  Canada  and  hit 
these  parts  about  two  years  after  I'd  located  here. 

"Well!  now  and  again  when  we'd  run  across  each 
other  I'd  find  him  looking  at  me  in  a  queer,  vague 
fashion,  too;  but  I  felt  safe  enough  with  him,  like  I*,? 
did  with  Moran  —  until  this  case  came  up.  After  it  was 
over,  he  and  I  happened  to  be  alone,  and,  in  a  round- 
about way,  he  began  asking  me  questions.  He  did  it 
so  clumsily,  though,  that  my  suspicions  were  aroused  at 
once.  Of  course  I  bluffed  him  —  or  thought  I  had  — 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     285 

easily  for  the  moment,  but  one  day  I  happened  to  be  in 
the  Post  Office  getting  my  mail  when,  amongst  a  bunch 
of  letters  on  the  counter  I  saw  one  addressed  to  "Gavin 
Blake,  Esq.,  Governor  of  Barmsworth  Prison,  Eng- 
land." Old  Kelly,  the  postmaster,  having  his  back 
to  me  at  the  time,  fumbling  around  the  pigeon-holes,  I 
promptly  annexed  this  letter  and  slipped  it  into  my 
pocket 

"When  I  opened  it  up  my  suspicions  were  verified. 
Young  Blake  wrote  to  his  father  that  he'd  come  across 
a  man  whom  he  could  almost  swear  to  as  being  one  of 
the  three  convicts  who'd  broken 'out  of  Barmsworth 
some  years  back.  He  asked  what  steps  he'd  better 
take  in  the  case  —  if  the  original  warrant  issued  for  me 
could  be  forwarded  to  the  Mounted  Police,  and  so  on. 
He  said  his  intentions  were  to  try  and  gain  further 
evidence,  and  in  the  meantime  to  confide  in  no  one 
about  his  suspicions  until  he  received  definite  instruc- 
tions what  steps  to  take. 

"I  guess  the  devil  must  have  got  a  good  grip  on  me 
again  after  I'd  read  that  letter.  It  seemed  no  use  try- 
ing to  redeem  the  past  with  outsiders  like  young 
Blake  making  it  their  business  to  butt  in  and  lay  one 
by  the  heels.  Anyway,  like  Satan  at  prayers,  I  didn't 


286  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

feel  like  being  coolly  sacrificed  when  my  years  of  honest 
effort  were  drawing  near  their  reward  in  the  shape 
of  a  fairly  prosperous  ranch  —  just  at  the  whim  of  a 
lazy,  profligate  young  busy-body. 

"From  that  hour  Larry  Blake  was  practically — • 
'gone  up/  I'd  deliberately  made  up  my  mind  to  put 
him  out  of  business  on  the  first  convenient  opportunity 
that  presented  itself.  That  opportunity  came  on  the 
night  he  was  fighting  with  Moran  in  the  hotel.  I 
thought  I  could  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  I'll 
admit  it  was  a  devilish  idea,  but  I  was  desperate.  Of 
course  things  didn't  shape  out  as  I'd  planned  — 
Moran's  alibi  for  instance,  or  that  hobo,  Drinkwater. 

"I  know  to  you  it  will  only  appear  sheer  nonsense  on 
my  part  ever  to  start  in  attempting  to  justify  my  —  my 
abolishment  of  him.  But  this  —  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  —  is  the  absolute  truth  of  what  happened.  In 
the  first  place  —  when  he  spotted  me  bringing  Moran's 
horse  into  the  stable  that  night  —  although  I  was  mad 
and  man-handled  the  poor  devil  at  the  time  —  I  felt 
fairly  easy  in  my  mind  later,  thinking  he  would  drift 
out  of  town  next  day,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind. 
But  when  he  was  brought  up  in  front  of  me  afterwards, 
I  realized  the  serious  predicament  I  was  in." 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     287 

He  turned  to  Slavin.  "Sergeant!"  he  went  on:  "I'll 
admit  I  was  feeling  pretty  queer  when  you  were  ex- 
amining that  man  —  especially  about  the  smelling  of 
drink  business.  I'd  slipped  him  a  snort  of  whiskey 
after  you'd  gone  down  to  Doctor  Cox's  to  get  those 
papers  signed.  I  told  him  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  if 
he  was  questioned  about  any  horse  or  man  —  and  that 
I'd  get  him  off  if  he  obeyed  my  instructions.  Of 
course  he  didn't  know  what  all  this  was  for.  He  had 
no  opportunity  of  knowing  —  never  did  know,  though 
I  fancy  he  thought  it  was  a  case  of  horse-stealing. 
Anyway,  my  promises  and  the  drink  made  him  my  ally 
at  once.  Only  human  nature  for  him  to  side  with 
me  against  the  Police.  As  you  know,  Sergeant,  you 
can  get  more  definite  results  from  that  class  of  man 
by  a  drink  bribe  than  by  all  the  threats  and  promises 
in  the  world. 

"My  original  intention  in  taking  him  out  to  my 
-  place  was  to  slip  him  twenty  dollars  or  so,  and  head 
him  adrift  westward,  and  so  out  of  things.  But  after 
we  got  home  and  I  put  the  proposition  up  to  him,  the 
beggar  began  to  assert  himself  and  get  bold  and  saucy 
—  tried  to  blackmail  me  for  an  unheard  of  amount  — 
threatening  he'd  go  and  tell  you  everything  if  I  didn't 


288  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

come  across,  and  all  that.  Finally  I  lost  my  temper 
with  him  and  gave  him  a  good  slap  across  the  face. 
He  happened  to  be  outside  the  house  bucking  wood  at 
the  time,  and,  when  I  hit  him,  he  came  for  me  with 
the  axe.  I  only  jumped  back  just  in  time,  as  he 
struck.  I  threw  down  on  him  and  put  him  out  of 
business  right-away  then,  realizing  I  was  up  against 
it." 

Gully  halted  for  a  space  and  leaned  his  head  in  his 
hands.  "God!"  he  muttered  presently,  "what  nights 
I've  had!  I've  killed  many  men  in  my  time,  but  those 
two —  I  hated  framing  up  all  that  business  on 
you  fellows  next  day  —  those  tracks  and  the  bill- 
folder,  and  all  that  useless  chasing  for  a  week,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  only  plausible  bluff  I  could 
run  on  you,  under  the  circumstances.  Now,  are  there 
any  more  things  you  don't  understand?  Any  ques- 
tions you'd  like  to  ask  me?" 

"Yes!"  queried  Slavin.  "How  did  you  get  to  Cal- 
gary that  night  —  after  you'd  missed  the  nine-thirty 
eastbound.  Jump  a  freight,  or  what?  You  were 
seen  to  get  on  the  train.  ..." 

"I  know  that,"  said  GiSly  slowly,  "I  did  it  for  a 
blind.  I  walked  through  the  coaches  and  slipped  out 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     289 

again  at  the  far  end  of  the  platform  —  in  the  dark. 
No !  I  didn't  jump  a  freight,  Sergeant.  I  was  tempted 
to,  but  on  second  thoughts  the  idea  made  me  feel  kind 
of  uneasy.  Perhaps  you'll  be  dubious  of  this,  but,  as 
a  fact,  I  took  a  'tie-pass'  —  walked  it  all  the  way  to 
Calgary  on  the  track.  I  was  about  done  when  I  made 
Shagnappi  Point,  beating  my  passage  through  all  that 
snow.  I  bought  a  new  pair  of  cow-puncher's  boots 
while  I  was  in  town.  You  remember  I  was  wearing 
them  when  I  returned.  I  had  the  overshoes  wrapped 
up  as  a  parcel  and  packed  them  back  to  the  ranch  and 
burnt  them  —  and  Drinkwater's  boots." 

"How  about  that  Savage  automatic?"  said  Yorke, 
"the  one  you  shot  those  dogs  with  yesterday?  We've 
got  your  Luger,  but  where 's  the  Savage  gun?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  replied  Gully  wearily,  "of  course  I  had 
two  guns.  I  never  used  to  pack  the  Luger  around — • 
afterwards,  well!  ...  for  obvious  reasons.  You'll 
probably  find  the  Savage  in  the  cellar  at  my  place — • 
that's  if  it  isn't  buried,  like  I  nearly  was." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
scratch,  scratch,  of  the  inspector's  pen,  as  he  rapidly 
indited  a  formal  statement  for  the  prisoner  to  sign. 
Once  during  its  composition  he  halted  for  a  brief 


290  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

space  and,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  gazed  long  with 
a  sort  of  dreary  sternness  at  the  huge,  unkempt  figure 
before  him. 

"Gully,"  he  said  slowly,  "whatever  in  God's  name 
put  it  into  your  head  to  stand  off  the  Police  in  the 
way  you  did?  Shooting  those  two  poor  chaps  and 
nearly  putting  the  kibosh  on  five  others!  Whatever 
did  you  hope  to  gain  by  it?  You  must  have  known 
it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  you  to  make  your 
get-away  from  us.  Why,  man!  we  had  you  cornered 
like  a  wolf  in  a  trap.  It  was  worse  than  silly  and 
useless  and  cruel  for  you  to  act  in  the  way  you  did!" 

"Oh,  my  God!  I  don't  know!"  moaned  Gully,  rock- 
ing despondently  with  his  head  in  his  hands.  "I  must 
have  gone  clean  mad  for  the  time  being.  ..."  He 
gazed  gloomily  at  Slavin  and  Yorke,  muttering  half 
to  himself:  "What  little  things  do  trip  a  man  up  in 
the  end!  The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men! 
But  for  my  shooting  those  cursed  dogs  yesterday  you'd 
never,  never  have  suspected  me.  The  whole  thing 
would  just  have  been  filed  and  forgotten  in  time- 
would  just  have  remained  one  of  those  unfathomable 
mysteries.  Directly  after  I'd  thrown  down  on  those 
curs  I  realized  what  a  d d  bad  break  I'd  made  — 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     291 

what  my  momentary  loss  of  temper  was  going  to  cost 
me.  I  could  tell  by  the  way  you  all  looked  at  me 
what  was  in  your  minds.  ..." 

"Yes,  but  how  about  that  fishing  expedition  of  ours, 
Gully?"  said  Yorke.  "You  seem  to  have  forgotten 
that."  And  he  related  the  story  of  Redmond's  dive. 

"Ah! "  retorted  Gully,  bitterly.  "And  yet  you  might 
have  got  snagged  a  hundred  times  there  and  only  jast 
cursed  and  snapped  your  line  and  reeled  in,  thinking  it 
was  a  log  or  something.  .  .  .  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I 
realized  the  jig  was  up  after  that  dog  business,  and 
directly  I  got  home  I  began  making  preparations  for 
my  get-away  last  night.  If  you'd  all  only  have  come 
half  an  hour  later  than  you  did  —  That's  what  made 
me  so  mad  —  just  another  half  hour  later,  mind  you, 
and  I  would  have  been  away  —  en  route  for  the  Coast 
by  the  night  train." 

Presently  Kilbride  threw  aside  his  pen  and  straight- 
ened up.  "Now,  listen,  Gully!"  he  said.  And  he 
read  out  the  confession  that  he  had  composed  from  the 
main  facts  of  the  prisoner's  remarkable  statement 

"Yes!"  muttered  Gully  thoughtfully,  as  the  inspec- 
tor finished.  "Yes,  that  will  do,  Kilbride.  Give  me 
the  pen,  please,  and  I  will  sign  it.  .  v  »" 


292  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

He  proceeded  to  affix  his  signature,  continuing  withi 
a  sort  of  deadly  composure:  "I  have  endorsed  and 
executed  many  death-warrants  in  my  time  —  in  my 
capacity  of  Deputy-Sheriff  —  I  little  thought  that  some 
day  I  might  be  called  upon  to  sign  my  own  :.  .  . 
which  this  document  virtually  is.  *•  ».  ." 

He  reared  himself  up  to  his  huge,  gaunt  height,  and 
with  a  sweeping  glance  at  his  captors  added:  "Nothing 
remains  for  me  now  I  imagine,  but  to  shake  hands 
with  — Radcliffe.*  ..." 

And  his  dreadful  voice  died  away  like  a  single  grim 
note  of  a  great,  deep-toned  bell,  tolled  perchance  in 
some  prison-yard. 

"Eshcorrt!  Get  ready!"  boomed  out  Sergeant 
Slavin's  harsh  command.  The  party  was  on  the  sta- 
tion platform.  Yorke  and  McSporran  fell  in  briskly 
on  either  side  of  their  heavily-manacled  prisoner,  and 
stood  watching  the  distant  lights  of  the  oncoming  east- 
bound  train  as  it  rounded  the  Davidsburg  bend. 

One  last  despairing  glance  Gully  cast  about  him  at 
the  all  familiar  surroundings,  then  he  raised  his  fet- 
tered hands  on  high  and  lifted  up  his  great  voice: 

*Note  by  Author — Canada's  official  executioner  at  this  period. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     293 

"I  have  striven!  I  have  striven! — and  now! — 
Oh!  there  is  no  God!  Bear  witness  there  is  no  God! 
No  God!  .  .  ."  he  cried  to  the  heavens. 

The  wild,  harsh,  dreadful  blasphemy  rang  far  and 
wide  out  into  the  night,  floating  over  the  nearby  river 
and  finally  dying  away  a  ghastly  murmur  up  among 
the  timber-lined  spurs  of  Crag  Canon. 

And  a  huge,  gaunt  lobo  wolf,  lying  at  the  crest  of 
the  draw,  flung  up  his  gray  head  and  howled  back  his 
awful  note  —  seemingly  in  echo:  "There  is  no  God! 
no  God!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much 

use  to  try  —  " 
"Never  say  that,"  said  the  Surgeon,  as  he  smothered 

down  a  sigh; 
"Chuck  a  brace,  for  it  won't  do,  man,  for  a  soldier 

to  say  die!" 
"What  you  say  don't  make  no  diff'runce,  Doctor,  an'  — 

you  wouldn't  lie.  ..." 

"THE  OLD  SERGEANT" 

GIT  THERE!    Come  a-Haw-r-r,  then!    Whoa!" 
With  a  flourish,  Constable  Miles  Sloan,  the 
Regimental  Teamster,  swung  the  leaders  of 
his  splendid  four-in-hand  and  pulled  up  at  the  front 
entrance  of  the  Holy  Cross  Hospital.    Slewing  around 
©n   his  high   box-seat  he  addressed  himself   to   the 
drag's  occupants,  Slavin  and  Yorke. 

"I  don't  know  whether  they  will  let  you  see  him,  or 
not,"  he  remarked  doubtfully,  "he's  a  pretty  sick 
man." 

"We  will  chance  ut,  anyway,"  mumbled  Slavin,  as 
he  and  Yorke  climbed  out  of  the  rig.  "Ye'd  best  wait 
awhile,  Miles!  We  shan't  be  long." 

294 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     295 

Quietly  —  very  quietly,  Sister  Marthe  opened  the 
door  of  room  Number  Fifty-six,  and  with  list-slippered 
noiselessness  stepped  out  into  the  corridor. 

"Oh,  Mon  Dieu!"  she  ejaculated,  startled  at  the 
sudden  apparition  of  two  scarlet-coated  figures  stand- 
ing motionless  outside  the  door,  "Oh,  m'sieurs,  'ow 
you  fright  me!"  and  the  expressive  eyes  under  the 
white  coif  and  the  shoulders  and  supple  hands  of  the 
French-Canadian  Nursing-Sister  made  great  play. 

Yorke  saluted  her  with  grave  courtesy.  "Sister," 
he  said  anxiously,  "how  is  Constable  Redmond  doing? 
Can  we  see  him?" 

She  glanced  irresolutely  a  moment  at  the  handsome, 
imploring  countenance  of  the  speaker,  and  then  her 
gaze  flickered  to  his  huge  companion.  The  silent, 
wistful  appeal  she  read  in  the  latter's  grim,  cadaverous 
face  decided  her. 

"Eheu!"  she  said  softly,  "  'e  is  a  ver'  seeck  man 
.  .  .  but  come  then,  m'sieurs,  if  you  wish  it!" 

Cautiously  they  tip-toed  into  the  room  behind  her. 

Yes!  They  decided,  he  was  a  "seeck"  man  all  right! 
So  sick  that  he  could  not  raise  his  flushed,  hollow- 
cheeked  young  face  from  the  pillow  to  salute  his  com- 
rades with  his  customary  impious  bonhomie.  Now, 


296  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

gabbling  away  to  himself  in  the  throes  of  delirium, 
ever  his  feverish  eyes  stared  beyond  the  hospital-walls 
westwards  to  Davidsburg. 

With  his  brow  contracted  with  an  expression  of  vague 
worry,  he  was  living  over  and  over  again  the  memorable 
night  in  which  he  had  gotten  his  wound. 

"Slavin! — Yorkey!"  he  kept  repeating,  in  tones 
of  such  yearning  entreaty  that  moved  those  individuals 
more  than  they  cared  to  show.  Yes,  they  were  both  of 
them  there,  standing  by  the  side  of  his  cot;  but  the 
poor  sufferer's  unseeing  eyes  betrayed  no  recognition. 

The  deep  sorrow  that  oppressed  Slavin  and  Yorke 
just  then  those  worthies  rarely  —  if  ever  —  alluded  to 
afterwards.  Passing  the  love  of  women  is  the  un- 
spoken, indefinable  spirit  of  true  comradeship  that 
exists  between  some  men. 

For  one  brief,  soul-baring  moment  the  comrades 
stared  at  each  other,  their  self-conscious  faces  re- 
flecting mutually  their  inmost  feelings;  then  Yorke 
turned  to  Sister  Marthe. 

"What  does  the  Doctor  say?"  he  whispered 
anxiously. 

The  nurse  was  about  to  make  answer  when  the 
door  was  softly  opened  and  that  gentleman  entered  the 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     297 

room,  accompanied  by  Captain  Bargrave  and  Inspector 
Kilbride. 

Involuntarily,  from  long  habit  of  discipline,  Slavin 
and  Yorke,  stiffened  to  "attention"  in  the  presence  of 
their  superiors,  until,  with  a  kindly,  yet  withal 
slightly  imperious  gesture,  the  O.C.  mutely 
signified  them  to  relax  their  formal  attitude. 
The  Regimental  Surgeon,  Dr.  Sampson,  a  tall, 
gray-moustached,  pleasant-faced  man,  nodded  to 
them  familiarly  and  proceeded  to  make  minute 
examination  of  his  patient's  wound.  From  time 
to  time  he  questioned  and  issued  low-voiced  instructions 
to  Sister  Marthe.  Perfectly  motionless,  the  grave- 
eyed  quartette  of  policemen  stood  grouped  around  the 
cot,  silently  awaiting  the  physician's  verdict. 

Throughout,  poor  Redmond  had  continued  to  toss 
and  rave  incessantly.  Much  of  his  babbling  was  in- 
coherent and  fragmentary  —  breaking  off  short  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence  or  dying  away  in  a  mumbling, 
indistinct  murmur.  At  intervals  though,  his  voice  rang 
out  with  startling  clearness. 

"Ah-a-a!  Here  he  is!"  he  cried  out  suddenly, 
"Gully!"  —  all  eyes  were  centred  on  the  flushed,  un- 
quiet face  and  restless  hands.  There  seemed  a  curious, 


298  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

morbid  fascination  in  watching  the  workings  of  that 
sub-conscious  mind.  "No  use,  Gully!  You  can't  make 
it  from  there!"  —  the  twitching  hands  made  a  motion 
as  of  levelling  a  carbine  —  "No  use,  man!  I've  got  you 
covered.  .  .  .  You'  better  give  in!  .  .  ." 

He  paused  for  a  space,  panting  feverishly,  then  his 
eyes  became  wilder  and  his  speech  more  rapid. 

"No!  no!  Gully!"  he  gasped  out  imploringly,  "it's 
Yorkey,  I  tell  you  —  oh,  don't  pick  off  Yorkey!  .  .  . 
Drink?  .  .  ."  —  the  unnaturally  bright  eyes  stared 
unseeingly  at  the  motionless  figure  of  the  O.C.,  stand- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  cot  —  "Not  so  much  —  now  — 
since  —  looking  after  him.  .  .  .  Not  a  bad  chap.  .  .  . 
We  fought  once.  .  .  .  Yes,  Sir!  ...  had  —  hell  of  a 
fight!  .  .  .  Pax?  .  .  .  sure!  — bless  you!  — buried 
ruddy  hatchet  —  auld  lang  syne  —  Slavin.  ...  St. 
Agnes'  Eve!  .  .  .  How  he  sings  —  !  Oh,  shut  up, 
Yorkey!  —Sings,  I  tell  you—  !  Hark!  .  .  .  that's 
him  singin'  now—  Listen!  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  it's 
Stevenson's  'Requiem'.  .  .  .  Burke!  Burke!  0  .  .  the 
• 's  always  singin'  that  .  .  .  goes  - 

And  the  weak,  fretful  voice  shrilled  up  in  a  quaver- 
ing falsetto  — 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     299 

"Under  the  -wide  —  and  —  starry  sky 
Dig  —  the  grave,  and  —  let  me  —  lie; 
Glad   did   I  —  live,   and  —  gladly    die, 
And  I  laid  —  me  down  with  —  aw " 

The  shaky,  pitiful  tones  died  away  in  vague,  in- 
coherent mumblings. 

Yorke  uttered  a  queer  choking  sound  hi  his  throat, 
and  turned  his  face  away  from  the  little  group.  Slavin, 
in  silent  comprehending  sympathy,  laid  a  huge  hand  on 
the  other's  shoulder  to  steady  him.  In  customary 
British  fashion,  the  O.C.  and  the  Inspector  strove  to 
mask  their  emotions  under  an  exaggerated  grimness  of 
mien,  only  their  eyes  betraying  their  feelings.  The 
former,  toying  with  his  sweeping,  fair  moustache  in 
agitated  fashion,  gazed  drearily  around  the  sick-room 
till  his  stern,  yet  kindly  old  eyes  finally  came  to  rest 
upon  a  framed  scriptural  quotation  which  was  hanging 
on  the  wall  above  the  head  of  the  cot. 

In  corpulent,  garish,  black,  red  and  gold  Germap 
text  the  inscription  ran: 

At  even,  when  the  sun  was  set, 
The  sick,  O  Lord,  around  Thee  lay; 
Oh  in  what  divers  pains  they  met! 
Oh  in  what  joy  they  went  away! 


300  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

Abstractedly,  the  old  soldier  read  and  re-read  the 
verse  till  his  eyes  ached,  and  he  was  forced  to  lower 
them  and  meet  the  tell-tale  ones  of  Kilbride. 

The  Doctor,  with  a  final  satisfied  scrutiny  of  his 
patient's  wound,  which  he  had  laid  bare,  bade  the  nurse 
dress  it  afresh,  then,  beckoning  to  the  others,  he  with- 
drew from  the  room,  followed  by  the  O.C.  and  his 
subordinates.  The  Doctor's  first  words  reassured  them 
in  no  little  degree. 

"Oh,  I've  good  hopes  of  him,"  he  said.  "He  seems 
to  be  doing  all  right.  He'll  puU  around  —  that  is, 
unless  any  unforeseen  complications  set  in.  It's  that 
journey  down  here  yesterday  that's  upset  him.  Ab- 
solutely necessary  under  the  circumstances,  of  course, 
but  —  terribly  hard  on  a  man  in  his  condition.  I 
think  it'll  be  best  for  nobody  to  visit  him  —  for  awhile 
anyway  .  .  .  must  be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible. 
Well!  let's  have  a  look  at  the  others!" 

The  remainipg  wounded  men  occupied  a  large,  semi- 
private  ward  lower  down  the  corridor.  Of  these  last 
Hardy's  case  was  by  far  the  most  serious.  He  had 
been  shot  through  the  body;  the  high-pressure 
Luger  bullet  luckily  missing  any  vital  organ.  Mc- 
Cullough  had  been  drilled  through  the  calf  of  his  left 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     301 

leg,  Davis  through  the  arm,  and  Belt  had  had  the 
knuckles  stripped  from  his  right  hand.  All  of  them 
were  resting  quietly,  though  weak  from  loss  of  blood 
and  the  train  journey. 

The  O.C.  and  Kilbride  remained  for  a  short  time 
in  the  ward,  manifesting  much  kindly  sympathy  for 
the  injured  men,  then,  deeming  that  perhaps  the  party 
was  retarding  the  nurses'  ministrations,  the  O.C.  with- 
drew, beckoning  his  subordinates  to  follow  him. 

Slavin  and  Yorke  walked  slowly  down  the  hospital 
steps  and  climbed  into  the  Police  drag  again.  Sloan 
gathered  up  his  lines  and  swung  around  on  his  high 
seat 

"Hullo!"  he  remarked  sleepily.  "Here  you  are 
again,  eh?  Begun  to  think  you  were  both  in  there  for 
keeps!  Well,  did  you  see  him?" 

"Yes!"  answered  Yorke  tonelessly,  avoiding  the 
teamster's  eyes,  "We've  seen  him.  Home,  James!" 


Firm,  measured  footsteps  sounded  in  the  hospital 
corridor  and  halted  with  a  jingle  of  spurs  outside  the 
door  of  room  Number  Fifty-six. 

"Come  aboard!"  came  the  clear,  boyish  voice  of 


302  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

its  occupant,  in  response  to  a  knuckle-tattoo  on  the 
panel,  and  the  visitors,  Slavin  and  Yorke,  entered. 

Redmond,  sitting  up  in  bed,  comfortably  propped 
with  pillows,  threw  aside  the  magazine  he  had  been 
raading  and  greeted  the  new-comers  jovially  and  with 
a  light  hi  his  eyes  which  did  the  hearts  of  those 
worthies  good  to  see. 

A  month's  careful  nursing  and  absolute  quiet  had 
transformed  their  wounded  comrade  into  a  somewhat 
different  being  from  the  delirious  patient  they  had 
beheld  when  last  they  stood  in  that  room.  Allowing 
for  a  slight  emaciation  and  the  inevitable  hospital 
pallor,  he  appeared  to  be  well  on  the  road  to  con- 
valescence. 

"Sit  at  ease!"  he  said,  with  a  fair  semblance  of  his 
old  grin.  "Smoke  up  if  you  want  to,  they  don't  kick 
about  it  here.  I've  tried  it  but  it  tastes  rotten  as  yet. 
Well!  What's  doin'  in  L?"  (He  referred  to  the 
Division.) 

"Hell,  yu'  mane,"  corrected  Slavin  grimly,  as  he 
and  Yorke  proceeded  to  divest  themselves  of  their 
side-arms  and  unbutton  their  tunics.  "Not  much  doin' 
now,  but  —  later,  p'raps.  ..." 

"Just  got  back  from  Supreme  Court,"  explained 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     303 

Yorke.  "Gully!  .  .  .  He's  to  be  'bumped  off'  this 
day-month.  ..." 

There  came  a  long,  tense  silence. 

"G d!"  broke  out  Yorke  suddenly,  arousing 

Redmond  out  of  the  deep  reverie  into  which  he  had 
sunk  on  receipt  of  the  news  —  "the  look  on  that  Eu- 
gene Aram  face  of  his  .  when  the  jury  filed  in  and 
threw  the  book  at  him!  .  I  can't  forget  it  somehow." 

"Well!  yeh  want  tu  thin!"  remarked  Slavin  bluntly. 
"Quit  ut!  .  .  .  d'ju  hear?  .  .  .  'Tis  no  sort  av 
talk,  that,  for  a  sick  room.  ..." 

And  hereafter  they  all  avoided  the  sinister  subject. 

Presently  McCullough  came  limping  in  on  his 
crutches,  and  ere  long  that  wily  individual  succeeded 
with  his  customary  ingenuity  in  inveigling  the  com- 
pany into  a  facetious  barrack-room  argument.  Later 
they  commenced  relating  racy  stories. 

Slavin's  deep-set  eyes  began  to  twinkle  and  glow, 
as  he  unburdened  himself  of  a  lengthy  narrative  con- 
cerning a  furlough  he  had  spent  in  his  native  land 
many  years  back,  in  which  Ballymeen  Races,  a  dis- 
reputable "welshing"  bookmaker,  himself,  a  jug  of 
whiskey  and  a  blackthorn  stick  were  all  hopelessly- 
mixed  in  one  grand  Hibernian  tangle. 


304     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

"Beat  ut,  he  did,  over  hedge  an'  bog  an'  ditch,  wid 
all  our  money,  th'  dhirrty  dog.  But  I  cud  run  tu,  in 
thim  days,  an'  whin  I  caught  up  I  shure  did  play  a 
tchune  on  th'  nob  av  um!"  concluded  the  sergeant 
thoughtfully.  In  pursuance  of  his  daily  round  of  the 
wards,  Dr.  Sampson  presently  came  swinging  in 
amongst  them  and  saluted  the  party  with  his  usual 
breezy  bonhomie.  A  universal  favourite  with  the 
members  of  the  Force  his  entry  was  acclaimed  with 
delight.  They  promptly  bade  him  sit  down  and  con- 
tribute—  a  la  Boccaccio  —  to  their  impromptu  De- 
cameron, which  request  he  (sad  to  relate)  complied 
with. 

Amid  the  roar  of  laughter  that  greeted  the  Doctor's 
last  bon  mot,  that  gentleman  looked  ruefully  at  his 
watch  and  prepared  to  depart. 

"Twenty  past  twelve ! "  he  ejaculated,  "and  I've  got 
four  more  patients  to  see  yet.  .  .  !  Behold  the  re- 
tarding influences  of  bad  company!" 

"Say,  Doctor,"  enquired  Yorke,  "how's  Hardy 
doing?  Is  he  bucking  up  at  all?  He  was  pretty  down 
in  the  mouth  last  time  I  saw  him." 

The  Doctor's  genial  countenance  clouded  slightly. 
"Well,  no!"  he  said,  gravely,  "he's  not  doing  well  at 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     305 

all.  I've  been  rather  worried  over  him  lately.  The 
man's  relapsed  into  a  curious  state  of  inertia  —  seems 
incapable  of  being  roused.  Organically  he's  nothing 
to  fear  now;  I'll  stake  my  professional  reputation  on 
that.  But  when  a  man  gets  down  like  he  is  now,  why, 
the  mind  often  reacts  on  the  body  with  serious  results. 
If  he  was  in  a  tropical  climate  he'd  snuff  out  like  a 
candle.  That's  all  that's  retarding  his  otherwise  cer- 
tain recovery  now  —  if  we  could  only " 

Here,  McCullough,  who  had  been  an  interested 
listener  broke  in.  "Rouse  him,  Doctor?"  he  queried, 
"you  say  he  wants  rousing?  ...  Is  that  all?  .  .  . 
All  right  then!  ...  I  know  him  better  than  you 
do  —  I'll  bet  you  I'll  rouse  him!"  he  concluded  a  trifle 
brutally. 

And  he  swung  off  on  his  crutches  and  presently 
levered  himself  into  the  ward  where  Hardy  lay. 

In  actual  bodily  recovery  the  latter's  physical  con- 
dition fully  equalled  Redmond's,  but  the  brooding, 
listless  demeanor  of  the  patient  confirmed  only  too 
well  the  Doctor's  diagnosis.  Now,  sunk  in  the  coma 
of  utter  dejection,  Hardy  was  lying  back  on  his  pillows 
like  a  man  weary  of  life. 

Sometime  earlier,  in  response  to  his  earnest  solid* 


3c6     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

tations,  he  had  been  allowed  to  have  his  beloved  parrot 
in  hospital  with  him.  All  day  long  the  disreputable- 
lobking  bird  gabbled  away  contentedly  as  it  climbed 
around  in  its  cage,  which  had  been  placed  on  a  small 
table  alongside  the  cot. 

McCullough's  first  move  was  to  resort  to  the  never- 
failing  expedient  of  arousing  the  parrot's  ire  by  puffing 
tobacco-smoke  into  its  cage.  Mechanically  the  out- 
raged bird  responded  with  a  shocking  blast  of  invec- 
tive, winking  rapidly  its  white  parchment-lidded  eyes 
and  swinging  excitedly  to  and  fro  on  its  perch. 

Hardy  admonished  the  joker  —  lethargically,  but 
with  a  certain  degree  of  malevolence  in  his  weary 
tones. 

"Aw,  chack  it,  Mac ! "  he  drawled.  "W'y  carn't  yer 
let  th'  bleedin'  bird  alone?  Yer  know  'e  don't  like 
that  bein'  done  t'im.  Jes'  'awk  t'im  tellin'  yer  as 
much!" 

McCullough  turned  on  his  crutches  and  leered 
awhile  upon  the  speaker  with  a  sort  of  mournful 
triumph,  than  he  lifted  up  his  voice  hi  a  very  £air 
imitation  of  Hardy's  own  unmusical  wail 

"Old  soldiers  never  die,  never  die,  never  die, 
Old  soldiers  neve?  die  —  they  simply  fade  aw-ay.** 


3°7 

"I  don't  think!"  he  concluded  soito  voce  to  Davis, 
as  that  individual,  sitting  down  on  the  next  cot  began 
preparing  his  wounded  aria  for  the  ministrations  of 
Sister  Marthe  who  had  just  entered  the  ward. 

"No  use!"  McCullough  rambled  on.  "I  tell  yu'  th} 
man's  as  good  as  'gone  up.'  Harry.  .  .  .  Well! 
I'll  have  old  Kissiwasti  when  he  pegs  out  anyway.  I 
won't  half  smoke-dry  th'  old  beggar  then!  I'll  teach 
him  to  swear.  .  .  V 

"Eh!    .    .    .  'Ere,  wot  abaht  it?" 

The  cockney's  voice  held  no  trace  of  lethargy  now. 
The  sharply-uttered,  vindictive  query  was  matched  by 
the  blazing  eyes  which  were  regarding  the  farrier- 
corporal  with  undisguised  hostility. 

"Wot  abaht  wot?"  mimicked  McCullough,  though 
his  heart  smote  him  for  the  cold-blooded  evasion. 

"Wot  abaht  wot  you  sed  abaht  me.  .   ,   ?" 

"Well,  wot  abaht  it.  .    .   ?" 

Speechless  with  rage,  for  a  moment  Hardy  gazed 
into  the  other's  nonchalant  mask-like  visage,  then,  with 
a  gesture  of  maniacal  impotence,  he  raised  his  clenched 
fists  high  above  his  head. 

Sister  Marthe  now  judged  it  high  time  to  inter- 
vene. During  the  enactment  of  this  little  tableau  she 


3o8     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

had  stood  looking  on  in  mute  bewilderment.  Despite 
her  imperfect  knowledge  of  English,  and  especially  the 
vernacular,  she  had  a  shrewd  intuition  of  what  had 
passed  between  the  two  men. 

Seizing  McCullough  by  the  arm,  despite  his  pro- 
testations of  injured  innocence,  she  gently,  but  firmly, 
escorted  him  out  of  the  ward. 

"Vas!  vas! — Now  you  go,  M'sieu  McCullough! 
>  .  .  out  of  ze  ward  right-away!  .  .  .  Vat  you 
say  —  vat  you  do  —  I  do  not  know,  but  you  'ave 
excite  'im  'orrible!  .  .  .  Oh,  pardonmz-moi,  Doc- 
teur!"  she  ejaculated,  as  she  bumped  into  that  gentle- 
man in  the  corridor. 

"Hullo ! "  said  the  latter  inquiringly,  as  he  remarked 
the  little  nurse's  flushed,  angry  face.  "What's  up, 
Sister  Marthe?" 

For  answer,  that  irate  lady  pointed  accusingly  to 
McCullough.  That  worthy,  his  questionable  experi- 
ment accomplished,  was  retreating  up  the  corridor  as 
fast  as  his  crutches  could  carry  him. 

"First,  Docteur,"  began  the  nurse  indignantly,  "  'e 
blow  smoke  in  ze  eye  of  ze  parrot,  then  'e  turn  roun'  to 
pauvre  M'sieu  'Ardy  an'  'e  sing  —  oh,  I  'ave  not  ze 
English,  but  'e  blagub  'im  so  — 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     305 

"Vieux  soldats  ne  meurent!  jamaisl  jamaisl  jamaisl 
Vieux  soldats  ne  meurent  jamaist  —  Us  simplement  passent!" 

"An'  M'sieu  'Ardy  'e  say:  'Vat  about?'  an'  then  'e  raise 
'is  two  'ands  a  Ciel  —  so!  an'  'e  tell  Le  Bon  Dieu  all 
about  it.  Oh,  'ow  'e  pray!  Ecoutez!  Docteur!  you 
can 'ear 'im  now!  .  .  ." 

And  awhile  Doctor  Sampson  listened,  a  grim  smile 
lurking  around  the  corners  of  his  firm  mouth,  as  he 
leaned  against  the  open  door  of  the  ward. 

"Praying,  Sister?"  he  ejaculated.  "It's  the  queerest 
kind  of  praying  I've  ever  heard.  But  is  it  him  —  or  is 
it  the  parrot?" 

Two  days  later  he  remarked  to  the  O.C.  and  Kil- 
bride:  "I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  report  a  decided  improve- 
ment in  that  man  Hardy's  condition.  His  pulse  is 
stronger,  his  appetite  is  increasing  and  —  he's  be- 
ginning to  grouse.  That  old  ruffian  of  a  farrier- 
corporal,  McCullough,  was  right,  begad!  — he  knew 
the  man  better  than  I  did.  As  a  general  rule  I'm  in- 
clined to  be  rather  sceptical  of  such  drastic  experi- 
ments, but  in  certain  cases,  er  —  " 

"Something  of  the  sort  might  be  beneficial  if  applied 
to  young  Redmond,  too,"  remarked  the  O.C.,  testily. 
"He's  down  in  the  dumps  now;  though  to  give  him  his 


3io     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

due  ...  he  tries  hard  not  to  show  it  whenever  I 
happen  to  be  in  the  hospital.  Dudley,  my  Orderly- 
room  sergeant,  is  leaving  next  month  —  time-expired 
—  so  I  thought  I  was  conferring  a  great  favour  on  the 
boy  by  promising  him  the  step-up  —  good  staff  appoint* 
ment  —  give  him  a  chance  to  recuperate  thoroughly. 
But  no !  —  my  young  gentleman  courteously  declines 
my  munificent  offer.  Nothing  must  serve  him  but 
he  must  go  back  to  me  Irish  'ginthleman'  and  that 

d d  dissipated  scamp  of  a  Yorke." 

"It's  the  spirit  of  comradeship,"  remarked  Kil- 
bride  quietly.  "If  I  might  suggest,  Sir,  ...  I  think 
it  would  be  better  if  you  do  decide  to  let  him  go  back 
there.  They  pull  well  together  and  do  good  work, 
those  three." 

"'Ullo,  Reddy!"  called  out  Constable  Hardy,  as 
he  directed  his  wobbly  steps  towards  the  bench  on  the 
hospital  balcony  where  George,  was  seated,  "  'ow  long 
'ave  you  bin  up  'ere?  Th'  O.C.  an'  Kilbride  was 
round  jes'  now.  You  didn't  see  'em,  eh?" 

"No,"  answered  Redmond  listlessly.  And  thereupon 
he  relapsed  into  moody  silence. 

"W'y,  wot's  up?"  enquired  Hardy  presently,  scan- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED     311 

ning  the  other's  downcast  countenance.  "Wot's  th' 
matter  wiv  you,  son?  .  .  .  you  don't  look 'appy!  .  .  ." 

"You  bet  I'm  not,  either!"  burst  out  George  sud- 
denly. "The  Old  Man's  offered  me  Dudley's  job,  but 
I  don't  want  a  staff  job.  I  want  to  go  back  to  Davids- 
burg.  Who  cares  to  be  stuck  around  the  Post?" 

"Me  for  one!"  retorted  the  old  soldier  grinning. 
"Jes'  now,  anyway.  Listen,  son!  Th'  Old  Man  'e  sez 
to  me:  '  'Ardy!'  'e  sez,  'you've  bin  'it  pretty  bad  and  I 
find  you  deserve  a  softer  class  of  dewty  than  goin'  back 
t'  prisoner's  escort.  I  think  I'll  recommend  you  for 
Provo'-Sorjint,  in  charge  o'  th'  Guard-room,  w'en  you're 
able  t'  return  t'  dewty,'  'e  sez." 

With  an  effort  Redmond  roused  himself  to  the  point 
of  congratulating  the  Cockney  upon  his  prospective 
promotion.  He  had  no  desire  to  act  as  a  wet  blanket 
on  such  an  auspicious  occasion  as  this,  his  own  troubles 
notwithstanding. 

"That  ain't  all,"  continued  Hardy,  with  a  gloating 
chuckle.  "Th'  Old  Man,  'e  sez  'Belt's  bein'  invalided, 
McCullough's  gettin'  'is  third  stripe,  an'  Dyvis  is  goin' 
dahn  t'  th'  Corp'ril's  Class  at  Regina,  but  that  there 
young  Redmond  worries  me!  I  don't  know  wot  t' 
do  abaht  'im/  'e  sez  —  jes'  like  that — sorter  kind- 


3i2     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  MOUNTED 

like  —  not  a  bit  like  th'  O.C.  o'  a  Division  torkin'  t* 
a  buck  private. 

"  'Beg  yer  pardon,  Sir!'  I  sez,  'but  if  you  let  'im  go 
back  t'  Dyvidsburg  I  fink  'e'll  be  quite  contented. 
Seems  like  'e  wants  t'  be  wiv  Sorjint  Slavin  an'  Con- 
stable Yorke  agin.' 

"  'Fink  so?'  sez  'e,  pullin'  'is  oweld  moustache,  'I 
sure  do,  Sir,'  I  sez.  'So  be  it,  then!'  'e  sez,  turnin'  t' 
K-ilbride,  but  th'  Inspector  'e  sez  nothin'  -  -  'e  on'y 
larfs.  An'  then  they  went  away." 

Redmond,  giving  vent  to  a  delighted  oath,  came  out 
of  his  sulks  on  the  instant. 

"Hardy!"  he  cried,  "you're  a  gentleman!   .  .  ." 

"Nay!"  was  the  other's  disclaimer.  "A  dranken 
oweld  soweljer,  son  .  .  .  that's  all." 

But  Redmond  heard  him  not.  With  elbows  resting 
upon  the  balcony-rail  he  was  looking  beyond  the  Elbow 
Bridge,  beyond  Shagnappi  Point  —  westwards  to 
Davidsburg,  his  face  registering  the  supreme  content 
of  a  man  who  had  just  attained  his  heart's  desire. 


THE    END 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
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EDGAR  RICE  BURROUGHS 
NOVELS 

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TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan'  s  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in 
his  search  for  vengeance  on  those  who  took  from  him  his 
wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan 
proves  his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth— a  succession 
of  the  weirdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction^ 
John  Carter,  American,  finds  himself  on  the  planet  Mars, 
battling;  for  a  beautiful  woman,  with  the  Green  Men  of 
Mars,  terrible  creatures  fifteen  feet  high,  mounted  on 
horses  like  dragons. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

Continuing  John  Carter' s  adventures  on  the  Planet  Mars, 
in  which  he  does  battle  against  the  ferocious  * 'plant  men," 
creatures  whose  mighty  tails  swished  their  victims  to  instant 
death,  and  defies  Issus,  the  terrible  Goddess  of  Death, 
whom  all  Mars  worships  and  reveres. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

j  Old  acquaintances,  made  in  the  two  other  stories,  reap- 
pear, Tars  Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others.  There  is  a 
happy  ending  to  the  story  in  the  union  of  the  Warlord, 
the  title  conferred  upon  John  Carter,  with  Dejah  Thoris. 

THUVIA.  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  fourth  volume  of  the  series.  The  story  centers 
around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son  of  John  Car- 
ter and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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•'  ~TT» 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT^ 
THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 
WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGIONJ 
THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 
THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 
RIDERS   OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 
THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 
THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 
DESERT  GOLD 
BETTY  ZANE 

[***»•'«  r 

LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  "Buffalo  Bill"  by  his  sister  Helen  Cody 
Wetmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

^ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE; 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 
THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

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THE  RIVER'S  END~ 

A  story  of  the  Royal  Mounted  Police. 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

Thrilling  adventures  in  the  Far  Northland. 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  a  bear-cub  and  a  dog. 
KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "quarter-strain  wolf  and  tbree-quarters  husky"  torn  ' 
between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallant  part 
he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman'. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  his 
battle  with  Captain  Plum. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  the  North. 

'THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  fight  in  the  "  valley  of  g<^d  "  for  a  woman. 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilderness 
1  is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 

,THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly. 
.ISOBEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

j     A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  women. 
BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.  The  great  Photoplay  was  made 
from  this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

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THE  PRIDE  OF  PALOMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell !  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum- 
ber king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk.; 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Gappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal- 
lion sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


RUBY  M.   AYRE'S    NOVELS 

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RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
1  strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ?  , 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
,  Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
[  enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded.  \ 

'THE  SCAR 

With  tine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a ' 
terrific  contrast  between  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

i  Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

"^Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ayres  to  tell  you  as  only 
.  she  can. 

>THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON  ^ 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther !  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

•  GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 


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THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  the  12th  Century.  The  heroine,  believing  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  in- 
teresting developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deals  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis- 
crepancy in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  young  chap  \vho  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 
that  soften  and  purify. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHED,        NEW  YORK 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 


Kay  be  had  wherevar  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

,  The  scene  of  this  splendid  story  is  laid  in  India  and 
tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  through 
all  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 

GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul. 

THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win   even  when  there  was  only 
*'  a  hundredth  chance." 

THE  SWINDLER 

The    story  of    a    "bad  man's"    soul   revealed    by  a 
woman's  faith. 

THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  false. 

THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid  love  story  of  India.       The  volume  also 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


S^EpJONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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